


in all that you can ever change

by twigcollins



Series: hawkes and hounds [6]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:36:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twigcollins/pseuds/twigcollins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aftermath of 'Following the Qun' for Qunari and Viscount sympathetic Hawke.  F!Rogue Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “You’re playing a part, and there’s no time” - Thom Yorke, Analyse
> 
> Some game dialogue.

Hawke knows he’s gone before she touches him. It’s easy enough to see, even in the low light. Aveline is saying something about danger and perhaps Sebastian says ‘Grand Cleric’ but Varric is silent because maybe he already knows what she knows, that they’ve come all this way for nothing. Saemus kneels like a penitent above them, head bowed, and Hawke hears Aveline call to him as she darts up the stairs - maybe she thinks Hawke is rushing to make sure he’s safe - but there’s just no breath in her body to say otherwise. No space where even her heart ought to be beating, all of her full with the knowledge that the Viscount’s son is dead. Hawke stops, a few steps away, a calm that isn’t calm - and she kneels down, her voice not even a whisper for a boy who can no longer hear her.

“I’m sorry, Saemus.”

One more for the pyre, one more name for the list of all those she’s failed. The dread that sunk into her - chained weights and the cold sea to drown in - the moment the Arishok had said Saemus was not among them, Hawke can feel it dragging on her now, heavier than ever and slowly changing shape. Twisting into a dark and dangerous bird that chokes her, scrabbling cold talons in her flesh as it tries to crawl out of her throat, as Saemus slumps away from her hand to the floor. Gone, gone before she’d ever arrived and yet it still feels as if she’d killed him, that last brush of her hand enough to sever him forever from this world.

He would have made a difference. A desperately needed link to counter the threat Hawke knows damn well no one else in the city has even tried to understand, that she certainly doesn't understand. A thoughtful, sensitive boy - a man who’d just started down a path that, no matter where it went or why, could only do good for Kirkwall, for all of Thedas. His future so bright that for a moment it eclipses even this, and she can still see Saemus the scholar and politician, an old man - perhaps Viscount, perhaps not - here in Kirkwall or on some distant shore, surrounded by treatises and books and all the foundations of the better world he had helped create. A kinder world and not this mad ruin. Not this pointless, cruel waste, all that hope and all that potential left crumpled on the floor of a house of peace.

And for what? For _what_?

The footsteps are loud against the marble floor, but she doesn’t bother looking up. Saemus’ hair has fallen front of his eyes - too long, and shaggy, and she has to keep herself from pushing it out of the way. Hawke had teased him about it, the last time they’d met, that he’d never make Viscount looking so unkempt. Obviously he’d had other things on his mind.

“Serah Hawke, look at what you have done.”

The voice echoes up from below, full of smug triumph and theatrics, and the only reason Petrice isn’t dead in the next moment is that Hawke can’t move and because it doesn’t matter. If she does not die now she will die in a few moments time. Dead already, Petrice just hasn’t realized it yet, and that at least will be worth looking forward to.

Maybe Hawke speaks, she can hear her own voice, loud and steady, though she’s paying no real attention to the words. The renegade Mother’s army of zealots steps out into the light, and Hawke listens to the familiar, comforting sound of Bianca being loaded, hears Sebastian call out a warning, offering surrender even as he raises his bow and even Hawke’s inevitable revenge seems too little, nothing to be done to make this right. The absurdity of Saemus, careful and thoughtful and so thorough in his convictions, martyred by fools with weapons they can barely wield properly. They are not without number, and with a few Templars among them, though that mostly means Hawke loses sight of Petrice as they rush the dias, which means she may live for yet a full minute more. She feels some small pity for whoever will end up scrubbing the Chantry steps in the morning.

Hawke can still see Saemus’ body from the corner of her eye, barely paying attention to the man who comes at her with a righteous cry and a clumsy stroke of his sword, the momentum sending him past her even as his hand rises to where she’s already slit his throat. He goes down with a gurgle as Aveline bounces another off her shield, attempting to keep a few of them alive for questioning, though Hawke cannot imagine a use for anything they have to say.

Oh Maker, the Viscount doesn’t know. He is still in the Keep, still waiting for her to bring his son home.

The riot of battle tapers off into the groans of the wounded and the dying, and there is the Grand Cleric with Petrice behind, as content as a girl skipping down the stairs on Feast Day, and as she speaks Hawke begins to scan the room for weapons, her own knives too sharp and well-maintained to offer much but a clean, quick death - there ought to be something among the incompetents’ blades more worthy for this kind of execution. Petrice surely deserves the extra consideration.

Such bitter, vicious hate is a dangerous line of thought, and Hawke knows it, but she wraps herself in it anyway, a white-hot fury that burns even her sorrow to ash. A moment of sorely needed respite and to the Void with the rest. High ideals that did not save her mother. Principles that led Saemus to his death.

Aveline does most of the talking, her position as guard-captain carrying no small weight here, and had it been under any other circumstances Hawke would have to laugh, at how quickly Petrice’s charade crumbles to nothing beneath the Grand Cleric’s scrutiny - she doesn’t even think Elthina is trying all that hard. All the more horrifying, that such a flimsy, pathetic scheme could cost Saemus his life.

 _You could have killed her. The first moment you met her, and you knew what she was and you could have ended it then._

Instead, Hawke had saved her life. Because it was what she did. Because most of the time, it was the right thing to do.

The Grand Cleric is walking away with some mention of courts and justice, and Hawke bends down to pull a serviceably dull sword from a slack hand. She cannot entertain even the smallest possibility of mercy from some unknown ally, that Petrice might be spirited away to Val Royeaux or some other haven, for some ‘punishment’ when so many will not even see a crime - she dies _now_ , with all that Hawke can do to make her feel the true measure of what she’s ruined.

“Hawke, what are you-” Sebastian notices, and for a moment she thinks he is going to step between them, protect a murderer for the sake of Chantry law and she respects him for his devotion even as she’s planning the three moves it will take to get around him and tear Petrice apart. A fine archer, but there’s no stopping her, not in this. “Hawke, _no_. You can’t just-”

The hiss of the Qunari arrow in the air, the solid thud of it finding a home in Petrice’s chest stops the argument before it can begin. Hawke can only feel the slightest, bleak satisfaction as the disgraced Mother slumps to her knees, the second arrow surely killing her well before she hits the ground. The Qunari soldier looks at them from across the hall. Amazing how they can all radiate such a crippling sense of pride and certainty and disgust, when Hawke cannot even see his face.

“We protect those of the Qun. We do not abandon our own.”

It feels as if he’s put another arrow through her, with that. Elthina is the one to deliver the deathblow, though, pausing at the top of the stairs, her voice as ancient as the stones.

“Please, send for Viscount Dumar.”

—————————————

Bianca is infinitely kind and obliging, always giving Varric something to check or adjust or simply admire when he’d rather not be thinking. The courtyard is quiet, a few loose groups of mostly women in Chantry robes stare confusedly into the darkness, awakened by the riot in their midst and now murmuring to each other, bits of rumor and supposition, though it seems Elthina’s put a lock down on any real information. Varric is fairly sure that only he and Aveline and Sebastian are aware of exactly what’s happened.

And Hawke. All conversation had stopped when the Viscount had appeared at the gates, and Hawke had gone to him and bowed deeply. If he hadn’t known why he’d been summoned to the Chantry at so late an hour, Varric thought he’d figured it out then. They’d entered the hall with no further ceremony, and not a single word spoken. It’s been a quarter of an hour since, and there’s been no sound from inside, not that Varric expects much. Hawke had been so distant, from the first moment they’d found Saemus’ body, her only words to Petrice or the Grand Cleric simple, cold statements of fact, and she hadn’t looked at any of them.

“You know we’re up to our necks in dog shit.” Aveline says grimly, eyes fixed toward the gates of the Chantry and out, as if she can see the docks beyond, preparing for the worst. Whatever might happen, it’s quite clear they’ve lost their last chance at anything resembling a peaceful resolution.

“You Fereldens and your poetry.”

“I don’t like this.” Sebastian says flatly. “Hawke isn’t thinking clearly. This is going to turn ugly.”

“Save your sermon for the home team, Choirboy. It’s already ugly.”

It seems Sebastian’s upset by something Hawke had done or nearly done to Petrice, though Varric couldn’t spare a thought for the Chantry sister except that being a Qunari pincushion seemed too little a punishment for the amount of pain she’d put the city through - and Hawke. Mostly Hawke. Saemus hadn’t gone out of his way to make things easy for anyone, a young man’s eagerness to prove he could make his own decisions without considering all the consequences - that he might not even know all the consequences - but he’d been smart and Hawke had liked him and… she doesn’t need this. Not now. Varric’s all for the dramatic climax, with all enemies poised to attack and the forces of good left staggered on the ropes, but he’d like a little more certainty there will be enough of his hero left for the thrilling conclusion.

At last, the door opens, Hawke walking out of the Chantry alone, and everything Varric needs to know is in the set of her shoulders. The look in her eyes, the same as when she’d held her mother’s body. A sort of stunned yet patient awe, as if certain there must be some rational explanation for so much senseless pain, a method in the madness and she must simply be willing to wait for it.

“How fares the Viscount?” Aveline asks gently, not as much a question as a way to break the silence.

“What Viscount?” Hawke says. A few of the Chantry are listening in, Varric can hear the murmurs fade to silence, and he is glad to see Aveline shift in front of Hawke, protecting her from prying eyes. Sebastian steps up, his expression slightly too dour to simply be thoughtful.

“I should go to him.”

“Sebastian, I can _guarantee_ you the last person he wants to see right now is anyone from the Chantry.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and Sebastian finally turns away, his frown still firmly in place - but though he moves closer to the doors, he does not go inside. At the Chantry gate, a guardsman appears, obviously looking for the captain and after a glance in Varric’s direction Aveline steps away, leaving him alone to tend to Hawke. No real surprise when she drops down low to the ground, knees tucked up to her chest and balanced on the balls of her feet, one of those poses she can make look effortless. It is Hawke's usual method for contemplating tough decisions, though at the moment she is simply radiating hurt, still with that fragile, baffled look on her face. Curled up, as if trying to present as small a target to the world as possible.

“Hey, Hawke. Why don’t you come back with me to the Hanged Man tonight?” No drinks, just a chance to let her talk to him if she wants, or at least to sleep somewhere with a bit of noise and life, not that silent tomb of a house she’s been left to rattle around in. It won’t be the first time Varric’s given his bed over for a better cause - and he wants to keep an eye on her, at least until morning. She won’t ask for what she needs, but it’s hardly his the first time for that, either.

“I did this.”

“You know you didn’t.”

She won’t lift her head, or look at him. “I knew what Petrice was, Varric. I could have stopped this. I could have let her die years ago, and none of this would have happened. I _saved_ her.” He can see the brittle edge of her smile, like a pane of glass suddenly snapped in two. “I should have known. The dog didn’t even like her.”

“Hawke…”

“You should have seen the Viscount, when he realized what they’d done. She destroyed him, Varric. All Dumar tried to do was keep this city together, and Petrice broke him, and no one cares.”

Varric hates the sound of lost faith as much as anything, even worse when it’s happening to one of his protagonists.

“Come on.” He tries to keep his voice light. “Let’s get out of here. It’s late, and there’s nothing more-”

Hawke’s eyes lift up, focusing on a point over his shoulder, and Varric turns just in time to see Knight-Captain Cullen looking back at them. It should not be a surprise to see the him in the Chantry, though for some reason he seems oddly off-balance, almost out of his element. Blinking blearily, as if he’d been dragged from his bed to be flung into this fray, trying to catch up even as he forces himself forward. Hawke respects him, Varric knows that. Rule-bound and narrow-minded but never cruel, and he has fulfilled the only essential duty in her eyes - keeping Bethany safe. He is a Templar, though, and responsible for her captivity in the first place, and the matter of Ser Alrik did no one any favors, no matter who knew what about the man’s vile behavior. It is simply a bad time to be anyone Hawke does not wish to see, a definite edge in her voice as she stands, only leaden sorrow blunting the words from what would surely be a snarl.

“The Viscount’s son is dead. Surely the Knight-Commander can make the time in her schedule for _that_.”

A few heads in the courtyard turn in her direction, a new spill of murmurs rising up as more Templars appear, and Varric is glad to see Aveline moving their way, if only for the silent support. Doubtful, though, that it will come to blows. Up close, the Knight-Captain looks even worse, heavy shadows under his eyes, a certain stoic set of his jaw that suggests he is perpetually three days away from anything like a decent night’s sleep. Thrown into the middle of this, and likely not the first time he has been sent to deal with what Meredith deems too unsavory, or not valuable enough for her time. A moment more, and Aveline is standing behind Hawke, and Varric has to give Choirboy some credit, Sebastian drawing up to her opposite side, at least presenting the appearance of a united front.

“Tell me you didn’t know.” Hawke says quietly, staring at Cullen, unblinking.

“Serah Hawke-”

“Petrice had Templars with her when she murdered Saemus.” Her voice is practically a whisper, aware of the need for secrecy but still shredded at the edges with fury. “Tell me that the Knight-Commander didn’t know.”

No answer. Varric can see it on his face, the Knight-Captain many things but a good liar definitely not one of them. He didn’t know about this - but he doesn’t know if Meredith did. Hawke shuts her eyes for a moment, nodding as if she’d expected the answer all along, and he can all but watch the anger drain out of her, replaced with weary resignation. Hawke takes a deep breath, and when she opens her eyes to look at him again it seems she is actually seeing him, not the Templar but a man who may be as sick of all this as she is.

“You look like they dug you up before they dumped you in that armor.”

“Polite as ever, Serah.” Cullen replies, but there’s a thin, weary smile between them, even if it gutters like a poorly-lit flame, gone as soon as it arrives. Varric watches the Knight-Captain steel himself, and knows none of them are going to like it. “We need to talk about what happened here.”

The tone of his voice - it’s not a question, and Hawke loses more color than Varric knew she had to give, her face blank and pale, mouth set in a thin line. It’s Aveline who finally speaks, her voice low but full of outrage.

“What do you mean ‘what happened’?”

“He’s right, Aveline.” Hawke says - and her tone is dull, and distant. “Petrice wanted to use this to start a holy war. The Viscount’s position isn’t strong as it is, and the Chantry can’t - the _city_ can’t afford to deal with what she’s done, and stay intact. If they’d even believe it. It was… it will have to be one woman’s madness. Or… even less than that. It has to be buried, for the good of Kirkwall.”

“Hawke.” Aveline says, though if it’s full of warning or worry Varric can’t quite tell. Hawke ignores her, still looking at the Knight-Captain.

“If I agree to this, you do not blame the Qunari for what happened to Petrice. I don’t care what you have to say, but none of this falls on them. All Saemus wanted was an understanding. A world where we might find some accord without slaughtering each other every step of the way, and they’ve given us parley and we’ve given them death. The Qunari stay out of this - I owe him that much.”

On the word ‘owe,’ her voice cracks, and it’s clear the Knight-Captain did not expect this sort of response, had come prepared to dig in and argue with Hawke until she relented. He looks almost apologetic now, very nearly concerned. He knows what’s been going on at the Gallows. He had been the one to tell Hawke her sister did not want to see her after their mother’s death. An awkward position to be put in, for whatever it is they are, enemies who are not quite enemies, allies who never quite manage to be on the same side.

“Agreed.” He finally says, and then, with real hesitation, “Hawke, are you-”

“Just tell me what you need me to say, and I’ll say it. You have my support, or my silence. Whatever you need.” Hawke and Aveline share a long look, but the guard captain finally relents, though the promise of some later discussion surely passed in the silence between them. Cullen nods, though does not look as relieved as he ought to be, for having all he’d come for handed over without a fight.

“I will need to speak with the Grand Cleric and the Viscount, before there is an official statement made. I would appreciate if you…” Cullen trails off, the near-chiding tone and the obligatory reminder for lawful behavior crumbling before he can finish. “I am sorry, Hawke. If I had known about such a senseless… Whatever his path, Saemus Dumar did not deserve this. It should never have happened.”

“… and now the Knight-Captain’s offering his condolences. This must be the end of days.” The slightest spark of her usual humor, but when Hawke turns it’s as if every movement hurts, like she’s aged twenty years in an hour’s time. “Come find me if you need me.”

“I don’t think more will come of it this evening. Maker’s blessing be-” He stops, as Hawke simply stares at him. Well, _that_ would probably be what has Choirboy so twitchy, concerned that Hawke’s about to go on a little Exalted March of her own, right up the asses of the well deserving. Sebastian ought to know better, if he’d been around longer than the last few months, he would have seen - Hawke doesn’t have it in her for that kind of concentrated venom, even when it costs her, even when it would be easier and far more satisfying to hate in quantity.

It’s still too much to ask for, that they might make it out without any further incident. It seems easy enough, nothing left to say or do and all real responsibility toppled over onto the Knight-Captain’s shoulders, though Hawke glances back once at the closed doors of the Chantry and the look in her eyes - maybe a drink wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Sebastian has hung back, to speak with the Knight-Captain and if Varric were a little more curious he’d want to know what they were talking about, but Hawke needs him more, walking between him and Aveline, head down, staring at nothing. Her home is closer, maybe it would be better to just go there and take the spare room for the night, keep this down to as little a distance and as few people as possible. He leans back slightly, just about to try and get Aveline’s attention when a rough voice sounds out, carrying over the collective murmurs.

“Well, at least you can say nothing of value was lost.”

It is Ser Karras, who has never forgiven Hawke for lying about the Starkhaven apostates, and for making him look like the ass that he quite obviously is. Never given up on his own holy mandate of ensuring the title of Templar is synonymous with insufferable prick - and perhaps planning on taking up where Ser Alrik left off.

He is also a man who has never engaged Hawke in a battle of anything but wit and word, to speak so loudly, just as she passes by - and without his helmet on.

Varric knows what’s coming and he still almost misses it, as Hawke lunges forward in one swift, brutal motion, catching Karras in the throat so hard and so fast the Templar only rocks back a little on his feet, as if she’d nudged him, before dropping to the ground like a dead weight. It’s really a thing to see, such a large man in all that armor curled up in a little ball, making all sorts of odd noises as he twitches and tries to breathe, and only because Hawke pulled the punch that would have killed him outright.

A shout, possibly the Knight-Captain or maybe Choirboy but it’s drowned out by the creak of the Chantry doors opening, and Varric makes what might be his biggest mistake of the night, glancing back toward the hall rather than keeping his eyes on Hawke.

“Sorry, Varric,” she says, a toneless murmur, “I’ll have to see you later.”

“Hawke, wait. _Wait_.”

It’s Aveline’s ‘I-Am-Your-Captain’ voice but she’s not Hawke’s captain, and knows it. She’s Hawke’s friend and maybe even family but what she’s not is Isabela, and the pirate’s the only person who has any chance of catching Hawke when she does not wish to be caught. Varric turns just in time to see Aveline reaching out, though she must know she’s only grasping for shadows. If Hawke has to move at all to dodge her hand Varric can’t see it, doesn’t see more than the edge of her armor gleaming as she moves past the last of the Chantry’s lamps, and then the darkness catches her up and Hawke is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Kirkwall entertained the notion of fine weather like a Hightown noble determined not to enjoy himself. So even when it was warm and the breeze did away with the worst of the insects the skies were often cloudy, wide bands of gray that left the seas a dull color, only blue by the most optimistic of standards. Gulls scraped the skies with their cries further down the beach as Hawke and Saemus strolled along the coast, occasionally skipping stones across the waves. Karolis busied himself with sticking his nose into every crag and tidepool, when he wasn’t running up and down the narrow strips of sand, bringing pieces of driftwood for them to throw out into the water. The sea had never ceased to be a novelty for master or hound, after so long in a landlocked life. Hawke had yet to be convinced of Isabela’s assurances; that it was a completely different experience on a proper boat than the nightmare of their journey to Kirkwall, although the pirate had several… intriguing suggestions for conquering seasickness.

As with so much she had done for the Viscount, there had been no formal agreement between them in regards to his son. No discussion, simply that Hawke enjoyed the fresh air and Saemus enjoyed being anywhere that wasn’t Kirkwall, and it seemed there were few better options for bodyguard, given that she had been the last one to bring him back unharmed. It was an informal system, simply those days when she’d found herself at the Keep or the barracks and he’d been there looking bored or lonely or far more contemplative than a boy his age should look, and since Hawke could not free her sister she borrowed him instead. He reminded her of Carver, if only that they were nothing alike, and her brother would have surely disliked him as much as Hawke approved.

“You’re too good at that.” Saemus protested, his stone managing four jumps before being felled by a wave, while Hawke’s skipped so many times the ripples blurred together before it slipped out of sight.

“Years of practice in a very small town.” Not to mention that the snap of the hand was near the same, whether she was throwing a stone or a knife. They’d never spoken of the day they’d met, exchanging those first bare pleasantries over what had been left of the Winters. Saemus was gentle by both definitions of the word, and could well afford to hire men to spill blood he did not care to see. Unlike many in Kirkwall, though, he cared little for violence even by proxy. If not for his continued interest in the Qunari, Hawke would have thought him fit for the Chantry, thoughtful and serious as he was.

“I find it curious, Serah Hawke, that you have yet to offer your opinion of my ‘unnatural obsession’. Surely my father has asked you to advise me.”

The very first time that Hawke had met the Viscount, he’d had a worried frown buckling his brows, and now she was rather certain the expression was permanently chiseled there, the harried look of a man who’d spent far too much time thinking with far too few answers to show for all his trouble. He had mentioned his son’s steadfast interest in the Qun more than once, though in no way that suggested she ought to know what to do about it. Hawke couldn’t help but think he was at least a little proud of Saemus’ stubbornness, his adamant refusal to back down in the face of what he believed to be right. A steadfastness the Viscount had not, perhaps, been able to carry out in his own rule, though from what Hawke had seen there was little place for him to make some kind of principled stand, and even less good to come from trying. Keeping Kirkwall merely at equilibrium was an exhausting enough task.

“The Viscount knows better than to expect me to be any kind of example. I’m just walking my dog, and enjoying some good company.”

Hawke had managed to duck out of most engagements with the other young nobles of Kirkwall, though there had still been a handful of invitations she’d accepted to make her mother happy - disasters, all. As much endurance trials as anything, garden parties filled with tedium and talk, hunting sorties filled with even _more_ talk and compliments on the tops of boots and the linings of coats. Even when they hadn’t been completely insufferable there had been the demand for constant conversation, for all the proper social rituals and Hawke had finally resorted to her old habits of vaulting walls or disappearing into the trees when enough people were looking the other way. Fortunately, a few such disappearances, and a few of Varric’s more salacious tales reaching the right readers, and Hawke had been swiftly and mercifully shunned from all polite company.

Unlike the rest of them, Saemus felt no obligation to fill their silences with empty chatter, and entire afternoons had passed without much in the way of conversation. When he did speak, as now, it was always to a purpose, and she enjoyed that even when she became the object of his scrutiny.

“You do not believe, do you, Serah Hawke.”

Hawke chuckled. “You could at least _try_ to make that sound like a question.”

“I see you at the Chantry often enough. It seems you are on fair terms with the Prince of Starkhaven.”

Karolis’ bark echoed off the stones below them, as he caught scent of something scuttling into a crevice, and Hawke peered over the edge of the low cliff, watching him paw optimistically at the rocks. His first introduction to the creatures of the sea had ended with a claw stuck in his nose, and she could only hope he’d learned enough to keep from repeating the error. Mabari were intelligent, enough to be very curious, and that could go badly for anyone.

“Good men are good men. How they come to it is their own business.”

“But you don’t believe in the Maker.”

Hawke rolled her eyes, and glared as he smiled, feigning innocence.

“A proper Viscount’s son would know when a lady was politely dodging a question.”

“A proper lady would not be flinging flotsam _at_ -” and Saemus laughed, ducking as she tossed a piece of seaweed, “the Viscount’s quite improper son.”

The one thing about Saemus, he was utterly relentless when he had settled on a cause, even when he ought to know better than to expect much in the way of eloquence, or reasoning, or that anyone should give a damn what she thought about anything.

“I believe that Sebastian believes, and he finds solace in it. If it gives him what he needs to do right by others, who am I to argue?”

“A graceful non-answer. The Seneschal would surely approve.”

Hawke made a face. “You are a horrid boy, and I should have my mabari drag you out to sea.”

The dog in question suddenly yelped, jumping backward, pawing at its nose as a claw the size of one of her daggers slipped back between a crevice in the rocks. Karolis whined, looking up at her with pleading eyes.

“I’m exercising the better part of valor. You may wish to consider it.” Hawke called out, and shook her head as the dog returned to pawing at the sand, now doubly determined. Saemus was still watching her, the expression on his face - well, it was an expression anyone might have who spent most of his time surrounded by people who wished only to tell him how to live his life, and then only so he might not do anything they’d have to work to undo. Hawke liked the Viscount, though she was in a position to do little more than be his hunting hound, with no greater task than quelling whatever crisis she was pointed at. Who was to say he’d even thank her for that, if he knew of this sudden turn to blasphemy.

“If it’s true what they say, and the Maker has turned his eyes from this world, then Sebastian believes in a god that doesn’t believe in him. And _I_ believe that’s flaming dogshit.” Saemus barked out a surprised laugh, and Hawke smiled. “You see? This is why I don’t talk about it.”

“Is that really what you think? Some days I thought I was the only one who hoped the Maker would turn his gaze _from_ me.”

“You and half of Lowtown and most of Hightown.” No matter how much they might tithe to the Chantry afterward.

“So you believe I’m right to pursue this? To try to understand them?”

Hawke snorted. “You need my approval? I’m Ferelden-born. I know even less about the Qunari than I do about everything else.”

Bethany had been the one to bring the story with her, as they’d traveled across the sea. A lone Qunari who’d arrived at Lothering while they’d been gone, who’d murdered one of the families in the outer farmholds and then let himself be bound and left to die in a crow’s cage. Hawke had been able to imagine the deaths from her sister’s description of the murderer, a creature more monster than man - and she’d hugged Bethy a little tighter, that unfortunate family not as far from their home as she would have liked. It was that final detail that stuck with her, though - a senseless crime, so why had he stayed for the punishment? A question that had no answer. until Hawke had met the Arishok, had actually seen not just her first Qunari but an entire compound of them, and though they were powerful and merciless they were as far from berserkers as she could imagine. It was the murders that must have been the outlier, not the Qunari’s remorse - that he’d failed the code they all held so dear. Hawke couldn’t imagine the Arishok doing anything that might put the slightest crack in his perfect moral superiority.

Did they just not have tedious people in Par Vollen? Was that why it all worked so well? No idiots, no liars or bastards or anyone with a reach that exceeded their grasp? Was that the real power of the Qun? No fools?

“The Arishok respects you.”

Saemus’ tone was so earnest Hawke had to laugh. “He loathes me slightly less than the rest of the city, and for his own reasons. I never tried to gain his approval. I wouldn’t even know _how_ to try.”

Entirely an accident, Fenris’ fault more than anything. He had been teaching her about the Qunari ever since, their language and culture, as she had been teaching him to read and write, though he was a far better student than she’d ever be. Difficult enough to even remember that the Qunari were not a race but a creed, the Arishok’s horned people with another name she could never remember properly. It was only fair, really, that the Arishok’s good opinion was so conditional she’d have equal luck throwing darts at a board. He would respect her until he did not, and that was all.

“You do what is right. I have seen it for myself.”

“How many lashes is it, do you think, for turning a Viscount’s son against the one true god?”

Saemus rolled his eyes. “But you don’t believe that.”

“I believe I’m trying to do the right thing, when I can figure out what that is. But your father also thinks he’s doing the right thing - don’t make that face, he _is_ trying his best by you,” she insisted as he tried to protest, “and just because you like my answers better than his doesn’t mean he’s wrong. I’ve never been sure of much, and less by the day since we came to Kirkwall."

Hawke could hardly say she followed her own rules the way she once had, or was comfortable with all that she’d done and continued to do. Look at Anders. Sweet Andraste, look at _Merrill_. Everything she’d ever known of blood mages, all her father had taught her had told her to take the girl down, as hard and fast as she could. Yet Merrill was timid, and awkward and shy. She had not turned on them at the first convenience, had never made a single threatening move, and Hawke had felt one of the only certainties she’d ever had - blood mages were dangerous, could never be reasoned with, only destroyed - crumble away. Years had passed, and even as the Dalish mage’s work had yielded more frustration than results Merrill hadn’t started bleeding her neighbors or making darker deals with ever more powerful demons or doing much of anything at all besides annoying Hawke’s neighbors when she ended up in their gardens by accident.

Merrill was kind, skilled and gentle and… still a blood mage, and still her friend, impossible as that seemed. Even if she was a friend with a magic mirror that might one day reduce the Kirkwall Alienage to a Darktown skylight, and Hawke still didn’t know what to do about that. Saemus would not think as much of her, she was certain, if he knew how often her ‘principled’ decisions came down to little more than trusting others and hoping for the best.

“What would you do, Saemus? If the Qunari told you to go one way, and Kirkwall another, and you didn’t believe in either of them? Would you still think it right to choose your own path? If you couldn't ever be sure it would end well?”

The reason she liked him, that he did not answer immediately, did not treat it like a polite rhetorical, only frowned thoughtfully, turning his gaze to the horizon.

Hawke never did get her answer, the long pause interrupted by sudden, frantic barking on the beach. Karolis, failing to dig himself out a midday snack, had instead managed to unearth a clutch of giant spiders, now spilling across the beachhead in a twitching, furious wave of their own.

“You have _such_ a lovely city, Saemus.” Hawke said, unloading a few throwing knives into the middle of the pack, drawing her daggers and moving between the monsters and the Viscount’s son as they turned, scuttling their way back toward her with fierce, angry cries.

“We’re… very proud.” Saemus said weakly, and she could hear him pick up a rock, though she rushed forward before he might have the need to use it. As the spiders fell to her steel and Karolis’s fangs, the sun finally broke free of the clouds, scattering diamonds across the surface of the water. At times, even Kirkwall remembered it could be beautiful.

—————————————

The only real open space inside the city isn’t quite inside, but perching on the outer walls of Hightown. A breathtaking view of the bay in the daytime, the walls near flush with the cliffs, a thousand feet or more straight down to the sea. Late as it is now there is little to watch, the wind off the water wild and frigid, clouds thick across the sky. Out in the harbor, the great, bowed statues are still visible - always visible - but Hawke keeps her eyes on the ocean, a shifting, boundless black. A good smuggler’s night, if she were still in the business, and no doubt there are small ships moving all throughout the harbor, struggling against the waves.

The lights of the Gallows gleam in the distance, and Bethany is there, behind one of those windows, hiding herself away. In all her worst nightmares there had never been a moment Hawke thought her sister would choose the Templars over her company. Or that now, with all that’s happened, that it might actually be for the best.

 _”He’s taken a great deal of inspiration from you.”_

If she’s very lucky, maybe someday she’ll stop hearing the Viscount’s vote of confidence every time she tries to think of anything else. Hawke will stop seeing the look on his face when she’d met him in the courtyard, that terrible moment when he realized exactly what had happened, and how she’d failed. Dumar had been prepared for any number of grim outcomes, but she knew he’d never thought it would cost him everything. Neither had she, of course, or she would have taken it all back, every word about honor and duty and sacrifice, and if that made her a hypocrite so be it. Saemus had gone to the Qun and he’d come back because Hawke had told him to be the better man, and because he believed her. What kind of a demon’s bargain was it, that he could be a coward and alive or brave and dead?

She has the edge of her glove pressed against her mouth, worrying at the seam with her teeth, one of those bad habits that always made her mother sigh. Not a single part of this that has gone right, and there’s little chance anything is about to improve. Likely not her smartest move, to roll over so easily for Cullen, though Hawke cannot think of a better answer, let alone how she could have argued him to her side. As awful as ever at politics, at anything that requires her to be more than a pair of sharp knives and a quick hand. It was foolish, really, to make even the demands that she did of the Knight-Captain. Cullen’s not going to be able to stop Kirkwall from blaming the Qunari, the rumors likely sweeping through the city even now. He surely must have loved it, when he’d realized his place in Petrice’s little plan. How well she regarded the Templars, that they would have to be offered up front and center in her ‘defense of the faith,’ as if they had little better to do.

Why not just let the Qunari take it all? Let them have the whole damn miserable affair.

Hawke bites down hard enough to leave tooth marks in the leather, and in the next moment she is up and off the wall, dropping back into Hightown’s empty streets, a hundred thoughts in her head and none of them worth thinking. It’s grieving for her mother, that’s what it is, and Hawke had wondered just when it was going to hit her in full. With the weight of Saemus’ death behind it it’s amazing she can stand, let alone walk, but she has to keep moving, stay ahead of it. It had been easier to manage, when her father died. She’d had responsibilities then, to keep her family safe and fed. Enough work that she was busy at all hours, with no space for thinking. It had still been the better part of a year, before she’d been able to face it without being certain it would crush her to dust.

 _… and that wasn’t even your fault._

No one left who needs her now, no distraction to put between herself and the loss, and all Hawke wants to do is run. Get out of Kirkwall as fast as she can and vanish forever into the wild, silent places, the distant edges of the Free Marches. A fight would be second best, against anyone, but she’d made the mistake of clearing out most of HIghtown when her mother died, when she’d thought that was the worst that Kirkwall could throw at her.

It had been terrible, of course. A grotesque spectacle, all that blood mages knew how to do. The thought of her mother, terrified and alone and helpless - _that_ is still enough to wake her in the middle of the night, but her sudden, senseless death proved nothing Hawke didn’t know already. There are monsters in the world, cruel and twisted and empty, and monsters do monstrous things. This is not news.

Petrice dealt with no demon. No one in this world or any other had forced her hand, Saemus' execution only a matter of politics and cold calculations - and she had been a _Mother_. Risen in the ranks of the Chantry, though the thought of her in a charitable act is almost enough to make Hawke smile. No monsters there, only proud and determined fools playing long games for power, and Hawke doesn’t know how to fight that and never did. The reason she had to get away from the Chantry, silencing Ser Karras the very least of what she feels capable of now, and that’s without having to listen to any condolences being dusted off and trotted out. All the familiar refrains of the Maker’s wisdom and the Maker’s mercy as if, even in the midst of this, they don’t have anything better to do than praise His name just on the off chance He might be listening.

The Maker can go to the Void for all she cares, and take His judgments and His sulking and all his disdain for what He created with Him. Did He really think He was the only one who’d ever seen suffering? The first to ever be disappointed? So what if a dozen, a hundred, a hundred _thousand_ mages had been absolute bastards? So what if Maferath was a useless shit of a husband? If even one voice called out for His mercy, one desperate, innocent soul, it was His duty to respond.  How dare He turn away. How _dare_ He?

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Hawke keeps moving.

———————————————-

Breaking in to the Viscount’s estate is easy, with Dumar still at the Chantry and nothing in his home left to guard. Hawke’s never been anywhere near the man’s private life before now, the Viscount needing to keep her as distant as possible in public, even with how he’d come to rely on her for more clandestine matters. It seemed to bother him on occasion, though he’d never said so directly, and Hawke never pushed it, didn’t care. Anything she might have wanted was beyond even his power to give - why not help the city if she could? It certainly kept things interesting.

All the lamps have been lit, but the halls are empty, an eerie feeling to see such a fine home so abandoned. Hawke only has to sneak past a single servant, and even that is barely an effort, the elven woman weeping quietly in a dim corner room. So the news has spread this far, at least. All of Kirkwall will know before morning - and Hawke thinks of the sunrise, of having to endure that new day, and quickens her steps.

She does not know what drew her here, to stand in the center of Saemus’ room, only that she had to go somewhere and this seemed as good a place as any. One of the last places Saemus had been alive, as if that means anything. As if she might find some proper coda, a note or trinket that will tell her why it had to happen. The room is spare for a Viscount’s son, spartan and simple in what she must assume is an attempt at a Qunari style, mostly books and papers stacked neatly on a desk. It looks like he’d left everything behind, abandoned his whole life for that new world. The bed has been turned down, to welcome him home, and Hawke wonders if it was the weeping servant who’d done it, if it had happened before she’d known or maybe even after - and Hawke swallows hard as her throat tightens for what feels like the thousandth time.

It’s funny, the way the world works, the way a heart works. Does anyone get to choose, how much they care or for whom? Or does it simply happen - a boy meets a Qunari at the shore, a girl from Ferelden proves useful to a Viscount, and that’s only the smallest corner of some great, impossible web of common circumstance. Isabela knew Anders well before Kirkwall, Varric has wasted roll after roll of parchment trying to make a map simple enough to get Merrill through the city in some sensible fashion - even Sebastian and Fenris are friends, for all they ought not to have anything in common, the prince and the former slave. How could Petrice not see the wonder in that? Why was it only something to fear?

A large map hangs over the desk, the closest there is to any real ornament in the room, what Hawke assumes must be Par Vollen, names of places she’ll never see written out in a hand she can’t read. It must have been a gift from Ashaad. Hawke guesses Saemus had left the map behind for his father when he’d gone to the docks, perhaps hoping he might come to understand. Now it will likely be burned, just as Saemus will be consigned to the flames. Chantry law with Chantry prayers to save his soul.

His soul.

Hawke blinks, and knows then what she has to do. Even if it is dangerous, and possibly pointless and more than a bit mad. At least she has somewhere new to go that isn’t home, and Saemus’ sword is a good weight in her hand, holding her when her thoughts threaten again to stray. She’d never seen him wearing it beyond formal gatherings, but Hawke had still sparred with him on occasion, and he hadn’t had a bad form and it must count for something. It must.

The streets are empty, all the way back down into Lowtown, the Qunari enough of a threat to unnerve even those who face danger as a matter of course. The sharp bark catches her halfway to the docks, Karolis usually left to keep a watchful eye on Orana during the day, protecting her on any errands she might have to do. It’s late enough - Maker, it must be well past midnight by now - and so it seems he’d let himself out to come and find her. Hawke kneels down as he approaches, throws an arm around the sturdy bulk of him and leans in, grateful for at least the one constant in her life.

“We get through it, don’t we? You and I.”

He whines slightly, shifting nervously from paw to paw, sensing her mood. If this were the woods, the Wilds, he would run off and come back with game to share or a stick to throw or some odd piece of nonsense to make her laugh. It’s Kirkwall, though. He’s never figured out quite what to do with the city, either.

“Saemus Dumar is dead. You remember him? You liked to drool on his boots.”

A sharper whine. He’s a good dog, he understands. After a few moments, Karolis stands up, drawing himself gently out of her grip, and Hawke looks up to see him circling Fenris, tail wagging. Perhaps his retrieving skills are not so rusty after all.

“You followed him?”

“He invited me.”

The muted worry in Fenris’ gaze is like a slap from those gauntleted claws, tearing her right open for all to see. Hawke can’t handle kindness now, especially not from him. His concern will smash her to pieces, and she will not have enough left to put herself back together. Hawke turns away, and it takes no time at all for him to fall into step at her side. It should be awkward. It should keep hurting, but his presence is as steadying, as soothing as the weight of her blades on her back. As close to safe as she thinks she’ll ever feel again.

“I would have been there, had I known.” He offers into the silence.

“The Viscount surprised me, and there wasn’t time. I was in a rush to get to the tragedy.”

Practically the only time he hasn’t been with them to face the Qunari, Hawke counting on Fenris to play mediator ever since that very first visit, if only to keep her from doing something idiotic she couldn’t take back. Funny to think about that, all those years ago when he’d been little more than a stranger. It had been so damn difficult not to touch him then and it was a thousand times worse now. Knowing the feel of him beneath her hands, having one of those rare, rich smiles of his all for herself. Pitch the romance out on its ear, it would be enough just to sit shoulder to shoulder in a friendly way, or run her fingers through his hair and startle him out of one of his pensive moods. To be playful, or kind. Hawke can’t remember the last time she was kind.

“Where are you going?” As if he can’t guess, the fish stink of the docks just starting to break through Lowtown’s usual funk - metal and open sewer tonight, with perhaps a hint of burning building.

“I need to see the Arishok.”

“Is that wise?”

“I can’t imagine how it could be.”

Except at this point it’s either kill time or people, and time takes less explaining afterward. Or maybe Hawke really is hoping for the fight, the best chance in the city for a truly brutal free-for-all. Certainly it would take her mind off her troubles, to find out just how many of those spears she can dodge at once - and what, had they managed to salvage an entire hold full of spares? Or did they carve more in all their free time?

The Arishok will summon her regardless. Hawke is certain that he’ll ask for her, the special guest for another round of that Qunari gloating that isn’t quite gloating, pointing out all the flaws in this useless city she’s already well aware of, before dismissing her because he can. Why make him wait?

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

Hawke smirks. “It isn’t exactly filling my heart with joy.”

The gate is open, the guard motionless and silent as she ascends the stairs into the compound. The Arishok is expecting her, as late as it is, though she’s probably the best entertainment he’s got. The clouds have finally opened up a bit, a nearly full moon wobbling in the water, the light from the torches brushing across the pale skin of his honor guard as if they were statues, phantoms in the night. Hawke isn’t sure what she’d been expecting, and there are fewer of them than she’d seen in the daytime, but not by much. The Arishok sits as always on his throne, the night’s shadows doing magnificent things to his ever-present air of menace and power. Does he sleep? Hawke can’t imagine him doing much more than resting, a dormant volcano that keeps its own time.

When she’d first met him, she thought she’d finally found someone harder to read than Varric, but now Hawke knows it isn’t true. The Arishok conceals nothing, no doubt and no fear. The Qunari are the only people she’s ever met with their actions and words in such perfect harmony.

“Serah Hawke.” He tips his head just slightly, and she realizes he’s looking at Karolis. “You bring new… companions. I have heard of these from the _Beresaad_. It is an animal bred for war. A…” He pauses, and says something to Fenris in their language, and the elf answers in turn. Hawke has the feeling they’re negotiating what most people do when they meet a Ferelden hound for the first time, the distinction between whatever a pet might be and what a mabari is. Might as well give him a closer look.

“Go on,” she says, with a slight gesture that sends Karolis nearer to the Arishok than any of them have managed, padding up the stairs to sit right at the foot of the throne, and dog and Qunari regard one another in silence for a moment. Of course, the mabari does not growl. It would make her life too easy.

“Interesting.” He rumbles, as the dog returns to her side. “You are here, no doubt, on behalf of those _bas_ who would claim we had no right to act as we did.”

“I’m here to congratulate your archer on his aim. It’s rather difficult to kill something with no heart.” The next words come as a surprise, even as Hawke hears herself speaking them. “You could have sent someone back with Saemus, to the Keep. You let him go alone.”

It is not quite an accusation, though damned close. The Arishok doesn’t move, the darkness hiding a reaction she knows he wouldn’t have anyway, and yet she can still feel his anger close around her like a fist.

“Tread carefully, Hawke. I will not be lectured on my duty to the _Viddathari_.”

As far as she can tell, she’s insulting them by just standing here and always has been, though it’s more difficult than ever to care. Fenris shouldn’t be here, if he wasn’t here she might allow herself to be properly stupid amidst a hundred armed men with very sharp horns, but she won’t risk Fenris’ life on her own momentary madness, and she could almost hate him for it. Her hand tightens on the scabbard she’s brought with her, Saemus’ blade. Hawke’s half-certain she won’t have the chance to _do_ the stupid thing she ought not to try when the Arishok leans forward, surprising her yet again. Usually there is nothing that can catch his interest, let alone twice in one night.

His dark eyes study her without blinking. “He was your _kadan_.”

Fenris has tried to explain that word, no exact translation, as close as the Qunari come to anything resembling the sorts of ties in the rest of Thedas, the bonds of friends and lovers. Intimacy through fraternity - blood-brothers - these were the people you fought for, and lived for, and when they were gone they took a piece of you with them. It had taken her ages to remember even the simple word properly, and even Saemus had chided her for it, always sighing and shaking his head, whenever she’d forgotten whatever facet of their culture he’d just finished explaining.

Saemus Dumar, her _kadan_ , dead on the Chantry floor, and this is the world she has to keep living in. Hawke feels her throat close up again, and her eyes are wet and she desperately hopes that it is too dark for him to see. Fenris was right. It’s a terrible mistake being here now, not at all the distraction it ought to have been. It’s all too open, too raw, and the Arishok is looking too closely, with whatever respect he has for her already on such uncertain ground. Hawke slowly draws Saemus’ sword from the scabbard, lets it lie flat across her palms. The one thing that actually stuck the first time she was told.

The look on the Arishok’s face might be surprise, or even pitying amusement, or perhaps only a cloud passing in front of the moon. Hawke can only guess what a mistake it will be to beg for this.

“Please.”

“He was not of the _Antaam_. Such a gesture has no meaning.”

“So take it and throw it into the sea. Melt it down and use it as a boat anchor, _I don’t care_. Right now in the Chantry they’re planning to commend his soul to the Maker. They’ll put his name on the memorial wall and give him a death he didn’t want and I can’t stop it. _I can’t stop any of it_.” Hawke knows how these meetings are supposed to go. The Qunari don’t do long explanations or emotional appeals. The Arishok has no reason to give a damn, and it would be really nice if she could get herself to shut the hell up. “He would have been… if what he, if it meant anything to you… please just take it. Please.”

She wonders just how long he’ll let her stand there, and what she is supposed to do after she’s failed at this, when the Arishok makes some small gesture, the Qunari closest to her at the bottom of the stairs stepping up and taking the sword from her hands. He does not immediately toss it into the sea. Hawke wonders vaguely about the boat anchor.

“Serah Hawke.” A tone from the Arishok that she has never heard before. It is almost, almost gentle. Oh, this is new. This is dangerous. “You do not believe.”

Now there’s something she never thought of, that in the little time he’d spent among them Saemus might have spoken to the Arishok about Kirkwall. About _her_. Hawke hardly thought he would betray the city, Saemus all too aware of who he was and the weight of his conversion - but they were friends, and part of that was knowing how little she cared for politics, or the Templars, or the Chantry. How they both could feel like strangers to the place they called home.

“You do not believe, _basalit-an_.”

“Not tonight.”

“And they could not stand against you.”

He’s not. He can’t be. Except that he _is_ , and Hawke rocks back on her heels and allows herself one breath, a single moment to imagine that she will accept what he’s offering. Following where Saemus led. Surrendering to the Qun. Sacking the heart right out of a city that has never wanted her and has never been home. It would be one of the easiest things she’s ever done. No more questions, no more having to think or plan or worry if she’ll be given another problem she cannot solve. Hawke could be only what she does best, nothing more than the fight, the smooth, unbroken grace of intent into action. The Arishok would give her that, would surely want her to be that, even if it’s true what Fenris says and the women don’t go to war. What might become of her afterward? Would she be bound for Par Vollen, for some new, domestic life? Or might she be left to breed up the first mabari who would follow the Qun alongside their masters?

Or perhaps she would be _Arvaarad_ , when they discovered Bethany was _Bas Saarebas_ , and had her collared and bound, and Anders killed, and Merrill - sweet, awkward Merrill - run through without mercy, or left with her tongue torn out. Ser Karras would die - and so would Cullen, and Thrask… and Sebastian and the Grand Cleric and even Chanter Taletha, who hardly did more than speak the Chant and smile at all who passed by, spending her days in peaceable, harmless contemplation.

Everyone has a perfect system. Every nation, every people. Just ignore the ones who don’t fit into it. Or cripple them into obedience. Or kill them. Watch a few innocents suffer for the good of the whole and call it necessary. A handful of sacrifices to keep the gears of civilization turning, but it’s not the same as blood magic. Really, it’s not.

Fenris is standing so close to her back Hawke can feel the warmth of him, and she wonders - not for the first time - why he didn’t pledge himself to the Qun, to spend the rest of his days contentedly slaughtering Magisters and their allies. Surely he would have found a place in this army, and his views do not seem so different from theirs. Of course, in their eyes, neither do hers.

Hawke remembers the _Saarebas_ they had called Ketojan, how he had mistaken her respect of his wishes for true understanding. As if she had not spent the entire walk home trying to think of what she might have said, how she might have convinced him to keep on living - but she never had the right to take away his choice, however miserable the outcome. It is not her place or her business to judge the Qunari or how they live, and she is good with a blade. Somehow these two simple things have made her an enemy in Petrice’s eyes and a potential convert to the Qun, though Hawke is sure when the Arishok looks at her he sees only ignorance or willful blindness. A child in need of proper training, and that Hawke had claimed a love of chaos - the only time she’d managed to truly shock him - is just another flaw in need of correction, if not a cry for help.

He may know her better than she thought, to offer this now. It does not seem like such a sacrifice, in this moment, to lose who she is, to let go of what only seems to hurt. Hawke does not lie to herself - the Arishok has a peace of mind, a clarity of purpose that she will never know, but the price… it is not hers alone to pay, and so she cannot pay it. Refusing him is still a nearer thing than she ever thought it would be.

“Petrice is not the Chantry, and she and her followers are dead. Anything more would require punishing the innocent to reach the guilty. I can’t do that.”

The silence lasts half a breath too long, and Hawke wonders if maybe she should have picked up a few more weapons before coming here. When he finally speaks, though, the Arishok sounds far more thoughtful than angry.

“This is your ‘freedom’? To chain yourself forever to the undeserving, and let them drag you down. It is a waste.”

In moments like these, when she stands full ready to protect those who murdered Saemus and imprisoned her sister, Hawke might as well concede the point.

“I imagine it will feel very good, the day you put your back to us forever.”

“Indeed.”

She bows low then, because he deserves her respect even if he does not care, and it is surely her last chance to give it.

“I humbly thank the Arishok for the honor done to Saemus Dumar.”

“ _Panahedan_ , Serah Hawke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I loved listening to those two Qunari talk in Hightown, that the Arishok really did want to take Hawke captive. Anyone out there want to write the fic where Hawke actually does get captured and they sack Kirkwall, or one where Hawke - probably not mage Hawke - actually does convert?
> 
> 2\. I tried to get all the names and vocab right but I have a bad track record with Dragon Age fic, so… here’s hoping.
> 
> 3\. Yeah, I thought this was only going to be two parts too but… no.


	3. Chapter 3

Exiting the compound is much like leaving the Gallows, an easing of gravity the moment they are outside the gates, the weight of it lifting away and Hawke can breathe again, although she doesn’t relax until they are around the corner and out of sight of the guard. She is trembling, just slightly, and surprised to find the darkness around them lit by a familiar blue tinge.

“Fenris, you’re glowing.”

Silence, but the light fades. Hawke looks to the sky, feeling her eyes burn; weary, worn and in no mood to sleep. It is difficult to tell how much time passed in her audience with the Arishok, not that it matters. This night is endless.

“Hawke.” Fenris finally breaks the silence.

“Mm?”

“Never go in there alone.”

When she opens her mouth, at first it’s to apologize, though she’s not quite sure for what, and Hawke can’t get the words out anyway. So she tries to agree with him instead, waiting for whatever clever reply might defuse the tension, but that proves no easier. Nothing at all comes to mind but the Viscount’s plea, so full of hope - _a great deal of inspiration from you_ \- and there is no escaping it. If only she could run, just run away and never stop, but there’s no chance of that, not with the Arishok’s next move to consider, and a funeral pyre to attend to, though Hawke does not know how she will endure it. One wrong look, one smug insinuation from anyone in Hightown and what happened to Ser Karras will look like high diplomacy.

Eventually Fenris will call her on it, that she has no plan beyond this aimless wandering, and what will she do then? How does she tell him that she’s afraid to go home, with only the dark and her thoughts for company, with so much time now and nothing to fill it up with? It had been enough of a surprise to have him there after her mother died, but she’d been mostly numb then, not this helpless, worthless rage, and they’ve been dancing on knife points around each other ever since Hadriana and… damn, everything after. If there is a way to make it right again Hawke doesn’t know how, only that she won’t punish him for what he can’t change and she can’t lean on him - the last thing Fenris needs or wants is her weakness. He might even be angry now, who can say? If anyone would know how close she’d come to surrendering to the Arishok, he does, and they could likely have a decent fight about it if she could figure out which side to be on and why it mattered.

“Serah Hawke!”

“Oh, who’s dead now?” Hawke mutters, and turns, not recognizing the voice, steeling herself for the next salvo. It’s only the guard from the Keep, Lieutenant Jalen. So has Aveline finally made good on what she’d always promised, and sent men out to round her up? Hawke listens, but there’s nothing from the rest of the night but silence, no fighting or angry mobs in the street, and she is almost disappointed. “What’s happened?”

He does not quite salute, but straightens in a way that suggests a respectful formality. “All quiet, Serah. In light of tonight’s… events, the Seneschal has called for a private meeting. He sends me to request your attendance. The Knight-Captain is already on his way.”

“Who else is coming?”

“Only the three of you, as I’m aware. The Seneschal believed… pardon me, but that ‘even you would understand the need for discretion.’”

Oh, Bran. Bran is _brilliant_ , and Hawke feels a very real surge of affection for his high-handed disdain and his endless grumbling and the way he treats her existence as the Maker’s personal punishment. He’ll say he’s called this meeting to discuss how to handle the Arishok, how things will be in the city with the Viscount… temporarily abstaining from his duties. Except if he was serious about any of it, she would certainly be the last one to know. Bran wants what she wants tonight, to take solace in the company of his enemies and avoid having to consider the dawn.

Flinging barbs at each other is far more comfortable than having to feel the full extent of this, and who knows, it might be as personal for him as it is for her, if not more so. Surely, Bran’s not cut from the kindest cloth, but he is still a father, and has worked directly under the Viscount for many, many years. As to why Cullen would agree - damn, but the Knight-Captain looked like he’d been dragged face-down from one end of the Undercity to the other before he’d ever reached the Chantry. Whatever’s got him in its grip, Hawke doubts the night will be kind to him wherever he goes. So they’ll get together to complain and threaten and insult and it will have absolutely nothing to do with politics, though they’ll all do their best to pretend otherwise.

Hawke glances over her shoulder, but still can’t trust herself to meet Fenris’ eyes.

“Can you take Karolis with you? I’ll come by for him in the morning.”

She feels the slightest bit of shame, taking advantage of the elf’s reserved nature - even if Fenris wanted to say no, even if he wanted to talk about what happened in the compound he will not not do it with the lieutenant as their audience, and after a moment he nods.

“Go with Fenris,” Hawke says, and the mabari lets out a disgruntled whuff, but turns to follow the elf back toward Hightown as she heads for the Keep.

———————

It had been far more than lives lost in the near-annihilation of the Vaels of Starkhaven. What could be burned was ash, what could be smashed had been left in ruins. The act of a woman who wished for none of their former legacy to remain, that she might build up from nothing. Sebastian tried to pretend it meant Lady Harimann still felt some sense of guilt for the deed, but did not know how honest he was to pray for her salvation. He prayed, then, for his own compassion alongside her deliverance, and when he did so it was often with his mother’s locket in hand.

Hawke had restored it to him, responsible for returning what few pieces of his old life remained, and without any expectation of reward. The same way she’d torn through the mercenaries that had killed his family, like some hero from a fable, giving him his victory and the necklace and disappearing before he could even get all his wits about him. Sebastian had made a few more inquiries of her when he hadn’t been pushing the matter of Starkhaven, but it seemed Hawke had disappeared on some expedition - and the next he’d heard of her had been quite the talk of Hightown, though it took a bit of work to turn all the stories into proper sense.

An odd tale, that her travels had made her quite wealthy, and she was apparently not only Hawke but an Amell, descended from one of Kirkwall’s more noble families. Sebastian had been baffled, then, by the derision that had met further questions about her, mutters of half-wild Ferelden dog lovers with real heat to the insults, the sort of thing that might demand satisfaction had he known her any better. Still, when Hawke had appeared at the Chantry - once again out of nowhere - the Grand Cleric had greeted her warmly and she was as Sebastian had remembered her, honest, brave and true, once more willing to join his cause even though he did not know where it might end.

So when Hawke had said to meet her in the Hanged Man, Sebastian had been certain he hadn’t heard her right.

He’d gone so far as to check at her estate, but the dwarven footman had seemed a bit surprised by his confusion, as if Hightown women often frequented Lowtown taverns. So he’d made his way to the bar, and surely stuck out in the mob of drunks and thieves even if no one blinked twice, though a Templar in the corner had looked away uneasily when their eyes met. As long as he didn’t try converting any customers, Sebastian suspected he was free to indulge in whatever flavor of hypocrisy seemed the sweetest.

It had been a long time since he’d been in a place this… earthy. Or crowded. Sebastian had quickly moved toward the wall at the far side of the bar just to get out of the way of the crowd and the barmaids, with an eye out for any sign of Hawke. The touch against the pouch at his hip was light, nothing there worth stealing past a few coppers and a stray button, but then the hand pressed a little higher, against his waist, and Sebastian realized he was dealing with a slightly different set of problems.

“Nock your arrow for you, then?” Tan eyes in a dusky face, coyly smiling up at him, “I bet you always hit the mark.”

“Do I offer to show you my longbow now?” Sebastian said dryly, just in case she thought he was some blushing neophyte fresh from a Chantry hall. She was beautiful, no doubt of that, and fully aware of how best to show off what the Maker had… generously granted her. Hardly a common tavern girl, though, no matter how friendly, and Sebastian would not have dropped his guard around her for the world.

“You men. Always happy to string your bow for the first girl you see.” He watched her try to puzzle him out, and wondered how long it would take her to lose interest, and how he might go about finding Hawke afterward. “At least buy me a drink first.”

“Isabela!” A familiar voice carried over the din of the bar, “you found the surprise!”

The next few moments… were not at all what he’d been expecting, whatever it was he’d been expecting. Hawke came down the stairs as if this place were her second home - with an exceptionally strange-looking elf only a step behind. He had impossibly pale hair and odd markings to match, twisting lines of silver all along his skin. He also wore a look of undisguised suspicion that bordered on open hostility, though as far as Sebastian could tell this was no more than his usual greeting.

The woman - Isabela - was smiling brighter than ever, Hawke’s own grin a fair match and Sebastian wondered just what he’d gotten himself into as Hawke stepped past him, slid her fingers under the edge of the woman’s blue sash and swept her right off her feet. A graceful little spin, with Isabela impossibly balanced on the tips of Hawke’s boots. It was nimble, and playful and reminded Sebastian of a pair of Antivan traveling acrobats he’d known in his younger days, two girls who could cost him _days_ of prayer in moments when nostalgia intruded on piety. After a turn and a half, they bumped lightly against the edge of the bar, Hawke’s arm draping around Isabela’s shoulder in a lazy way that rather answered any questions he might have had except, well, _all_ of them.

“Sebastian, may I introduce you to my very good friends, Captain Isabela and Fenris,” Hawke paused, frowning at the elf, “It doesn’t really roll of the tongue, you know. Just the one name. You need some sort of title. Fenris the Fearless. Fenris the Brave. Fenris the… Fierce Fist of Fury.”

“Fenris of the Painted-On Pants.” Isabela said, nodding.

“ _Commander_ Painted-On Pants.”

“ _Enough_.” The elf muttered, looking less suspicious and more regretful by the moment. Hawke and Isabela giggled like two young initiates who’d just seen their first Templar codpiece.

“This is the man I was telling you about. Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven.”

“And now you’ve found yourself a _prince_.” Isabela said, “It’s like they’re falling out of the trees around you, I swear.” She glanced at Fenris, who pointedly looked in the other direction, refusing to get involved. By the smile on Isabela’s face, this was all the way it ought to be. “So what’s the story with this one? How’s the draw on his bow?”

“He’s a Chantry Brother, as I’m sure you noticed. All that is virtuous, steadfast and good.” Green eyes sparkled with amusement, though it didn’t quite seem as if Hawke were mocking him.

“Damn.” Isabela pouted.

“So,” Fenris finally said, looking at him, “where do we find this demon of yours?”

“Demon?” Sebastian startled, “I didn’t mention any demon.”

“It’s usually a demon.” Hawke said, as if trying to reassure him, “When is it not a demon?”

“There was that time it was a dragon,” Isabela mused, “That wasn’t a demon.”

“In Hightown?” Hawke shook her head. “You watch. It’s going to be a demon. And spiders. It’s _always_ spiders.”

—————————————

Isabela and Hawke spent the entire time it took to reach the Harimann estate bickering over - and placing bets on - whether or not there would be spiders, and how many, and what size. Disturbingly, ‘how many’ and ‘what size’ also formed a significant part of the wager, until Sebastian wondered if it even mattered who won. Once they’d arrived, most of his attention had been on the mansion and the increasingly bizarre scenes within, though a part of him was still making the effort to match up the woman he’d held in three years gratitude to the very real Hawke who’d descended into the crypt still arguing with Isabela over the number of I’s in ‘felicitate.’

It was indeed a whole cache of demons. No spiders though, much to Isabela’s delight and what he’d soon discovered was Hawke’s unerring ability to lose a bet. If she was not exactly what Sebastian thought she’d be, Hawke still fought with a skill and swiftness that proved how easily she’d taken down all of Flint Company. Her companions were no less able, Isabela with an uncanny ability to line up a perfect shot for him, and Fenris damn near unstoppable. Hawke’s speed matched to their strength had made short work of even the darkest creatures, though in the end the damage done by Lady Harimann was past what even a blade could deflect.

He had no reason to expect any more from Hawke after the battle had ended, but then he’d done nothing to deserve her support in the first place. So it was less a surprise than it ought to have been when she’d accompanied him to the Chantry, listening as he took stock of his options, and what his duty to his homeland still meant anymore, and even of the desire demon, and what he feared he might become should he reach for power.

“Is the man ruling Starkhaven right now asking himself that question?” She’d finally said, after he’d exhausted his long list of doubts, “I imagine the Vaels have held the throne as long as they have for a reason.”

“My parents were wise and just stewards. I believe either of my brothers could have been their equal. I... don’t know if I can fill that role. If even trying would be the righteous path or the prideful one.”

Hawke lifted a shoulder, not quite dismissing his doubts, but certainly not agreeing. “Just don’t let some demon tell you who you are because she says you want power. That was fishing with easy bait. Everyone wants power.”

“It’s not that simple, Hawke.” He’d said, leaning on the Chantry railing, feeling every moment of jealousy, of self-pity, every nasty word and ill wish thrum through him like a plucked chord… the demon’s smile had known him to the very core. He did not expect it, when Hawke leaned in next to him, close enough for the guards on her shoulders to knock lightly against his own armor, a boyish gesture of camaraderie. He wondered what she might ever want power for.

“We can wait around for better men to do all the heavy lifting, Sebastian, but it might be a while before they show up.”

When she had looked at him then, and smiled, Sebastian realized that Hawke already believed in him, certain that not only would he make the right choice, but that he would succeed. Three years of silence from nearly all he’d thought to call his family’s allies, with the barest and most conditional offers of support, yet in her eyes he was every bit the man he needed to be. The fact that Hawke barely knew him did not make her good opinion any less the heady draught, and even as he’d reeled she had struck again, presenting him so casually with his grandfather’s bow. The second gift from her hands, without any expectation of reward but his own happiness.

The closest Hawke has ever come to asking anything from him is the occasional pestering, often with Isabela’s support, to repeat things in his ‘alarmingly sexy brogue, because Fenris won’t play along.’ Fenris, who does indeed not play along, seems all too pleased they’ve found another target.

In the time since that day, Sebastian has seen Hawke do great things, and terrible things, and there are times when they seem one and the same. He has been there, to stand by her against slavers and murderers and - they’re right - more demons than he can count, though not quite as many spiders as Hawke complains of. He knows she has even gone into the Fade itself, risking life and limb and possible damnation for some boy she barely knew.

“I sent him to the Circle. It didn’t work. It was on me to fix it.” As if that were all the reason necessary, certainly all the explanation Hawke felt required to give, and not at all the first time she’d ignored the Chantry’s teachings as if they did not exist, content mainly to sit back and listen whenever talk turned to more than secular concerns.

Certainly, their friendship doesn’t quite make sense under close scrutiny, though most of Hawke’s allies seem to be at some kind of cross-purposes: Isabela forever under the guard-captain’s watchful eye, Fenris particularly on edge whenever Merrill is nearby. Sebastian might very well consider the Dalish elf his own challenge, a mage who treats the Maker as a mildly-interesting fairytale at best. An apostate who is, by her own admission, _maleficarum_ through and through, and even by the rules of her people it seems that is no minor sin.

He would dwell on her further, but Fenris’ disapproval is enough for half a dozen such mages, and Sebastian…

Sebastian, Maker help him, has Anders.

——————————————

“If you are intent on wearing a hole in my carpet, Sebastian, I would ask that you switch to the green one near the fireplace. I am less fond of it.”

He startles out of his pacing, looking up to see Elthina watching him, a gentle, weary smile on her face.

“My apologies, Your Grace.”

“I shall add them to my collection.”

It’s been a long night for her, a long night for everyone. The Grand Cleric had attended to the Viscount in private for well over an hour, though there was no telling how much the man had even heard her. Hawke was right, Dumar had been shattered to the core, distantly clinging to scraps of politeness only because he lacked the strength to untangle himself and drown properly in his grief. He’d spoken little, accepting Sebastian’s condolences with a vague nod but nothing more, his attention drifting ever back toward the Chantry’s main hall, though Saemus’ body had already been taken away.

It had been the Seneschal to handle the particulars, calling a guard to see the Viscount safely home, speaking with the Grand Cleric and the Knight-Captain afterward. Sebastian has never thought much of Bran before this night. Hardly taken notice of him at all, just another politician of few scruples and fewer virtues. He can see now what a mistake that was, and thanks Andraste for the reminder to be humble. The Seneschal he assumed he knew so well is not at all the man who has taken charge here, Bran setting himself in the way, attempting to buffer the Viscount from any further blows. Working to ensure things do not get any worse, though that seems more an optimistic goal than a likely one.

As a Chantry brother, Sebastian can feel for Dumar, knowing what it is to lose family. As a Prince, he knows how what Petrice has done will echo long past this night, the death of the Viscount’s heir effectively ending the line, and with Dumar as old as he is, the question of succession might come to dwarf whatever happens with the Qunari. The Knight-Captain has put up an extra guard around the Chantry, though if the Arishok had wanted such revenge he would have sent more than a single assassin after the disgraced Mother.

Assassin. Hawke would have something to say about that. If it been her choice, Sebastian knows she would have gladly done the deed herself. He’s heard rumors, of course, never quite in earshot but from someone who heard from someone that Messere Hawke, yes _that_ one, the Amell, was quite cosy with the Qunari, and so strange how she often turned up in the middle of their business, always with the Viscount’s boy and everyone knew how _he_ was.

Until tonight, Sebastian would have thought it mere jealousy, the kinds of small, nasty insults that always fell in the wake of those with any kind of ability.

He remembers the way Hawke had looked, though, as she’d knelt for the sword, her gaze fixed on Petrice. He has seen Hawke angry, has seen her take up arms, but never with such a boundless hate in her eyes. It was unnerving, to see such fury leveled so fully at the Chantry, so eager to cut down a Mother that, in spite of all her crimes, held no weapon and posed no further threat.

A knock at the door jolts him again from his thoughts, a servant with tea and a simple meal, as if it were other than the middle of the night and anyone could possibly have an appetite. Elthina thanks the girl, ignoring the food, though she takes her time with the cup. Stirring it carefully, far more thoroughly than necessary, and not looking up when she speaks.

“It is nights like these that remind me of each of my years.”

It does not help, that there is a long day yet to come, and it _certainly_ does not help that he is still standing here, to trouble her further with his own problems.

“We are very fortunate to have your guidance,” he says, “but I should leave you to your rest.”

The Grand Cleric looks up at him, and Sebastian is forever amazed by how comfortable it is to be in her presence, compared to some Sisters in the Starkhaven Chantry who’d demanded far more respect with far less right. “You are troubled, Sebastian. If I may be of help, it will go some little distance toward easing my mind.”

“I can’t imagine how… your Grace was not aware of the Mother’s actions. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“A great sin has been done in the Maker’s name, and I indeed did little to stop it. Ignorance does not beget absolution.”

“You are too hard on yourself, Grand Cleric.”

A smile, though he knows she does not believe him and her gaze is still turned inward. “If I am not, few others will be. But perhaps there is nothing for it, after all these years. Seeing what I wanted to see, what I remembered instead of what I ought to have taken notice of - and forgiving too well. I knew a child once, a stubborn, proud girl… and to think it would all come to this.”

“I know what you mean.” Sebastian says quietly.

“Do you, now?”

——————————————

He had known a few apostates, in those days he’d spent squandering the family money and the family name in endless rounds of drink, wagers and self-congratulation. Sebastian had even bedded a mage once, though he hadn’t realized it at the time. It was only afterward that he’d caught her out, when she’d lit up the candle with a nervous gesture, quickly gathering up her clothing before she’d noticed he was awake. No one had ever looked at him the way she did then - such fear, and terror and despair - and he remembered how quickly she’d leapt into his arms when they’d met, that there had been Templars in the tavern and his bed must have seemed her best chance at escape. At the time Sebastian had been indifferent to anything beyond his own needs, only a bit amused, a bit pleased at his luck - she was a comely lass, apostate or no. He had paid her proper for services rendered, and forgotten her before the door had even shut.

It was only when he’d joined the Chantry in earnest that she’d returned to him, staring out from his memories with that wide-eyed, fearful gaze, and he’d felt the shame of it in full, how he’d treated her desperation as his happy circumstance. Sebastian wondered what her name had been. If she still lived, or if she had fallen prey to some slaver, or demon, or some other ill fate. He was not as fond, as some in the Order were, of calling down righteous judgment on the wicked and the sinful, or even the apostates, not when he’d thrown down cards and drinks and been thrown out into the gutter beside all of them at one point or another.

So, sworn as he was to do the Maker’s work, Sebastian was still willing to pretend he had never seen the secret passage beneath the Gallows. He would stand back as Hawke gave the young mage girl a few gold and made sure she knew where to run. Standing amidst a swath of Templar corpses, Isabela quietly picking over the remains, he would even recognize the necessity of what they had done, just why Hawke had wanted him here to see it - but there were things even he couldn’t overlook, and no matter how fast Anders had fled his presence remained, the presence of… Maker preserve them, and he’d thought the mage a danger _before_.

“You should have told me, Hawke.”

She had one foot on Ser Alrik’s chest, reading once more over the letter that proved there was no conspiracy, no plot to turn every mage in Kirkwall Tranquil.

“I was rather hoping I could just avoid that indefinitely,” she said with false lightness, carefully rolling the note back up as Isabela approached.

“I think I know who can get these bodies moved, and fast,” the pirate offered, disappearing as soon as Hawke nodded. If anything, their casual disinterest only rattled him further, as if no one else had even seen what he had.

“Anders is an _Abomination_ , Hawke!”

“Everyone keeps saying that like it means something.” Hawke’s eyes met his, and he was wrong - nothing casual there at all. “An Abomination is a big monster who slaughters people left and right, with no logic or reason, and doesn’t stop until everything around it is dead. Anders is a fussy mage who dislikes my dog for being too friendly and picks all the peas out of his shepherd’s pies, and… you’re right, he’s not quite alone in his head. I don’t know what to call that. I don’t even know if there’s a word for it. But Anders is my friend, Sebastian, and I know what I do for my friends.”

“He was about to murder that girl. He nearly-”

“Ser Alrik was making innocent mages Tranquil at his whims and he was _getting away with it_! That’s enough to shove anyone over the edge.” Hawke looked down, as if weighing the options for further desecrating Alrik’s corpse against the time it would take to do it. “Anders didn’t hurt her. He didn’t. The spirit in him… if all it wanted to do was kill people, it’s had plenty of opportunity before now.”

It was hard to believe what he was hearing. In all Sebastian had seen and learned and trained for, this was certainly not an argument he’d ever expected to have.

“You’d protect him. Even now.”

Hawke didn’t speak, didn’t need to - she’d been protecting the mage for years already, that much was clear. As clear as it was that his protest was not about to change her mind, even when every word Anders spoke seemed deliberately designed to offend, to alienate him from every one and everything and Sebastian could not imagine a person less worth her loyalty.

“I know you think this is simple, Hawke-”

“Oh, do I _wish_ it were,” she muttered, and fixed him with a long, searching look. “Come with me. There’s something you need to see.”

It was a long way back through the caves, and just as long a trip through Darktown, Hawke not even bothering to sheathe her knives, Sebastian with a scowl on his face and no one foolish enough to get in their way. It was a terrible place, the Undercity, even the worst hovel in Starkhaven practically a palace compared to such misery. He could not imagine how anyone could bear to live in such filth and ruin, no clearer sign of how much work there was for the Chantry to do, how many were in such desperate need of aid.

“Anders has been down here all along, you know. Three years plus. Except for when he followed me into the Deep Roads and saved my life half a dozen times.” Hawke’s nose wrinkled, as they passed a particularly pungent corner. “His share of what we took from that? Went right back into his clinic.”

Sebastian was about to ask what clinic, when they reached a rough door in the filth-stained wall, no different than any other that studded the Undercity save for one small, lit lantern hanging nearby and a woman slouched a few feet away, seemingly dead to the world except for the way her eyes glittered, watching him, gaze flicking over to Hawke who nodded slightly before stepping inside.

It was as close to a clean, quiet space as Darktown could provide, practically an oasis. Makeshift beds were lined up in neat rows, a few patients resting in relative comfort, the light scent of medicinal herbs actually managing to cut through the worst of the dank, musty air. The floors had even been swept, rows of jars and other supplies stacked tidily here and there, and in the middle of it all, crouched over a pile of papers and muttering to himself, was Anders. Hawke cleared her throat loudly, the mage snapping around so quickly it was amazing he didn’t topple over. His eyes were wide and startled, staring between them warily and Sebastian thought he had every right to be so worried, his own hand tensed, ready to go for his bow at the first hint of trouble, wondering how fast the Abomination could move.

“Keep looking at me like that, Anders, and I really will thump you one.” Hawke strode forward as if there was no tension in the air at all, Alrik’s letter in her hand and a smile on her face, soft and reassuring, just for him.

Anders stood slowly, his posture slumped and defeated, still glancing up at him every now and again even as Hawke reached for his shoulder, letting him look over the letter, speaking to him in tones too low for Sebastian to make out the words. It was clear Hawke was trying to steady him, though Sebastian thought the mage ought to be frightened, had every reason to be ashamed. Hawke might wish to believe there had never been any real danger, but Anders, for once, seemed to know the truth of it. Certainly, he was living proof of why the Circle was necessary, as a way to protect those endangered by their gifts, to keep them from hurting themselves or anyone around them.

Ser Alrik, in comparison, was evidence of nothing but his own wickedness, he and those who followed him serving their own desires instead of the Maker’s wishes. If the extent of his crimes had been truly known, certainly he would have been brought to justice long before now. It was good and right that he had been stopped. It hardly justified the mage’s irrational hatred for the Circle, the Chantry or what seemed to be most of the laws of men.

“Hawke, you shouldn’t…” Anders tried to pull away, but he didn’t get far.

“No. I’m taking you home with me. You know, where the soup lives. If you’re going to keep playing martyr, you might as well do it on a full stomach.”

“I can’t believe you’d just-” He was either baffled or offended, difficult to say. “I don’t know if you should trust me. I don’t know if I can _let_ you-”

Hawke shook his shoulder a little, leaning in close. As if her proximity was proof enough, that he could not be a monster. “Anders, you’re just _adorable_ when you think I’m giving you a choice.”

The mage’s eyes lifted to his once more, and Sebastian fought the urge to cross his arms and glower, feeling as much the disapproving older brother as anything more sensible, though he knew protection was hardly the reason Hawke had brought him here. She barely glanced at him, raising a hand to Anders’ cheek instead, turning his gaze back to her.

“It’ll be fine. I promise.”

The mage had his hand over hers, but it seemed less a gesture of affection than a man clinging to a lifeline, and there was a long moment before he let go.

“Just… let me finish up here. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Sebastian followed Hawke back out of the clinic, and with the door shut she let out a heavy sigh, rolling her shoulders before slumping back against the wall. Sebastian watched her, trying to think of some new way to protest the danger she had long since decided to ignore.

“Do you know how many Fereldens still live in Darktown?” Hawke said. “Not that anyone’s ever going to count.”

“What he’s doing is noble, Hawke. I will not deny that.” No matter how much he wanted to. “But that doesn’t change the fact that Anders can’t be trusted. Even he knows it.”

“Magic was meant to serve man. What else would you call this?” She gestured back toward the clinic door. “Anders is doing the Maker’s work here, for people who have no one else. The Chantry does what it can but you know there’s more who need help than can give it. People will die if he’s not here - good people, innocent people.”

He didn’t expect, for all her stubbornness, the worry in her gaze. It seemed she wasn’t nearly as certain of her choices, where Anders couldn’t see it.

“Hawke…”

“He didn’t mean for it to happen the way he did, with that spirit. Anders didn’t do it for any kind of power or privilege - and they’ll kill him for what he is now, Sebastian. The Templars won’t hesitate - there’s no going back for him, not anymore. No Circle. No playing nice and following the rules, even if he wanted to. So how can it make any difference, that I don’t know what he is? Does it even matter if I’m afraid? I can’t abandon him to that. I won’t.”

——————————————-

He should have argued with her then. Sebastian knows he should have taken it further than that, and turned Anders over the very next day, simply dropped a note at the Gallows about the clinic’s location and let the Maker’s work be done. It should not be enough to stay his hand, that Hawke would never forgive him for it. That it would likely be a hollow victory, and she would simply grab Anders out from under the Templars’ clutches and disappear into the Free Marches. If anyone could manage it, Hawke could, aided by the mages’ underground and those in Darktown who did not consider an Abomination any more frightening than what they faced every day.

In that thought is an uncomfortable truth, one he cannot truly refute. Anders is an obnoxious, irritating prat and a dangerous mage, working magic well beyond the bounds of what any man should try to control. He is also a healer, just as Hawke said, helping those in the dark places that even the Chantry is mostly unwilling to go. Darktown is treated as pitiable, wretched, even forsaken - and that is when it is spoken of at all. Sebastian has made mention of it here and there, what more might be done to help those most in need, and always to the same reply - the Chantry has limited resources, and they are better spent where they can do the most good.

A good that will best benefit Kirkwall, rather than helping strangers from across the sea - no one has ever said so aloud, but they hardly have to.

It still goes against every vow Sebastian knows to keep his silence. It goes against all of the Chantry’s teachings and anything resembling sense or reason. No one ought to ask that sort of concession from him.

All the more disconcerting, that Hawke never has.

“I was glad to see you in the Chantry, Sebastian, in spite of the circumstances.” The Grand Cleric says, “You always seem to be where you are most needed.”

“Traveling with Hawke can be rather…” he ponders his options, the space between usefulness and lunacy, “fortuitous.”

“You care a great deal for her, don’t you?”

Enough for him to keep the kinds of secrets he cannot begin to justify in any other way. Enough that he doesn’t always like to hear the more violent of Varric’s tales, of Hawke cheating death by the barest of margins, even if the dwarf loves to add darkspawn by the bucketful to even the simplest encounters.

Even enough to have him praying a bit harder on occasion, that he should not disrespect her with… more worldly thoughts, though that is only foolish lust compounded by a rather laughable arrogance. When Sebastian had been the man who might have had her - selfish and feckless and wild - Hawke would have wanted nothing to do with him.

It was complicated enough before now, and after tonight he cannot imagine there will be any improvement.

“Hawke is… never what I think she is.”

The Grand Cleric nods, but not in sympathy. “You knew what she was when she answered your call on the Chanter’s Board. We cannot simply take the pieces we want of those we admire, what we find useful, and ignore the rest.”

“It isn’t like that.” It isn’t, though Sebastian is sure Hawke had thought as much. Varric as well, and between the dwarf and Aveline he’s certain they would have shut him out had he even tried to explain- not that he’d done a good job of eloquence with the words he did have. “I don’t want to judge… I understand how she feels. I do. Hawke was close friends with the Viscount’s son, and for this to happen now, with her mother so recently passed…”

Leandra Hawke’s end had been nothing short of an atrocity, Aveline providing far more details than Sebastian wanted to hear, her body desecrated in such a manner… he could not help but be grateful he hadn’t been there, certain Hawke would not have wanted to face his horror alongside her own. He had made his condolences at the pyre - the body wrapped completely, not even the face uncovered - and Hawke had nodded, and thanked him, and never spoke of it again. To anyone, as far as he knew.

“I fear for her. I feel guilty, that the Chantry has failed - I feel as if _I’ve_ failed, and she was so angry, Your Grace. I didn’t know what to say, or do… and what if that doesn’t go away? What if she… what if everything has changed?” Sebastian is rambling now, and knows it, but the Grand Cleric has always indulged him with the space to do so, patiently allowing him to untangle his thoughts even if doing so seems only to tighten the knots. “I can’t help but ask myself what I would think of all this, if I hadn’t seen Petrice’s treachery up close. if I didn’t know Hawke. I don’t know if that should make the difference, but it does. She does.”

“You regret your friendship?”

“Never.” He is surprised, a little, by how true it is. “But I cannot say as much for Hawke. Her faith is not particularly… conventional, and she doesn’t make a show of pretending otherwise.”

No, that’s putting it far too lightly. Hawke goes out of her way to make sure anyone who wishes to can find fault with her. She has claimed no head for politics and that is certainly true, courting enemies as she does and refusing to lean on her allies. Even those who think kindly of her do not speak on it openly, admiring her boldness even as they see absolutely no reason to risk themselves by getting too close.

It is almost frightening, how willing Hawke is to step forward, to stand alone. When Sebastian had mentioned, just the once, that she might want to be more careful with her curiosity toward the Qunari, she’d looked at him as if he’d suddenly grown two heads. He can only imagine what she thinks of him now.

“If the lines are drawn, I’m not sure we will be on the same side.”

Elthina shakes her head with a small, wry smile. “If she were not on our side, Sebastian, I am rather certain we would know it.”

“I wish I could share your Grace’s confidence.”

He is surprised, when Elthina chuckles softly.

“Oh, Sebastian, always so impatient to do what is right. You are a man of deeds, not words. As is Hawke. After what happened tonight, if you had been the one to lose, what would you have done?”

What the Grand Cleric means is, what _did_ he do, and they both know the answer to that. When his family had been slaughtered, he’d written up the execution warrant against his enemies, and when she’d called him on it Sebastian had shot it out of her hand.

“… and what did I do?”

He drops his eyes to the floor at her gentle tone. “You made me feel like the fool I was before I took my vows.”

“… and then?”

It had been mere hours after Hawke had brought him news of Flint Company’s destruction. Hours since the first of his petitions for aid from Kirkwall had met with tepid uncertainty, and Sebastian had been unbearably restless. Uncertain of his next step and just at the edge of having to face that there might not be one, that he could not keep pushing forward forever. Sebastian had thought it was a pack of killers that had sent him running, but even knowing they were dead, the horrible, haunted feeling still dogged at his heels.

All the thoughts he’d buried and ignored, the simple hurt of it all, that he would never again hear his older brother’s laugh or see his mother’s smile. Everything, all the bitter moments and the sweet, had been turned to thin, distant memories no one else could ever share. Sebastian tried to temper the worst of his regrets, that even if he had been all but dragged to the Chantry he had learned, in the end, how to be the better man. After all the vicious, stupid slander he’d hurled at the family name, the letters he’d ignored, the endless self-pity - he’d finally been able to look his father in the eye and be proud of it.

Sebastian tried to remember that moment, and not think beyond. How he had been helpless, unknowing, while his entire house had been slaughtered to the last servant. That perhaps, if he’d been better right from the start, and not the self-indulgent ass he was, if he’d been a _proper_ son maybe it would not have happened at all. He might have been there. It might have made the difference.

It had been the Grand Cleric to find him then, taking his hand in both of hers, surprisingly strong despite her years. He had thought she had come to chastise him again for what had happened at the Chanter’s board, and he’d braced himself for judgment only to have her ask if there had been anything left undone in Starkhaven, if his family had been given all the proper benedictions. Sebastian had shocked himself by breaking down, weeping harder that he had since he had been in swaddling clothes. Elthina had said nothing more, letting him cry himself dry, and her grip on his hand had felt like the only thing holding him to the earth.

“I doubt right now that Hawke is thinking of where to place more blame, Sebastian. I doubt she is thinking of very much at all.”

The Grand Cleric is right, as she usually is, and he feels dull-witted, as he usually does, for what he ought already to know. Of course Hawke had chosen anger over heartbreak in the courtyard - what else could she do? It was the far lighter burden, and does he honestly think that she would ever hurt him? If he’d stood in front of Petrice and forced her to choose, is there any way she would have chosen revenge over his life? He certainly could not mourn in public, could not manage it at all until the Grand Cleric had stood by him, had given him the strength to face it. Why does he think Hawke is so different?

“I… don’t know what I can do for her, your Grace. I don’t know if I have the right. Hawke has… others. Friends who have known her much longer than I. Surely, she would…”

But he’d watched her walk away from Varric and Aveline, hadn’t he? Even Isabela had been scarce as of late.

“Sebastian, child, _this_ is the risk you will argue yourself out of taking?”

He has to try. After what Petrice took from her, after all Hawke’s done to help him, and for all his vows of duty and compassion - this is what it means to serve the Maker. He needs her to see it, to know that the Chantry is more than hypocrisy and judgment. And he owes it to her, as a friend.

If the Grand Cleric is wrong, if Hawke would much prefer anger over comfort - well, Sebastian’s armor is sturdy enough, and her servants will likely be able to toss him back over the threshold when she’s finished with him. It might be interesting, to see if a virtuous beating is any more satisfying than the regular kind.

“I beg pardon, your Grace. I will take my leave.”

“May the Maker watch over you, Sebastian. May the Maker watch over us all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Sebastian wasn't in Starkhaven for something like thirteen years but I'd like to think once he decided to straighten up and fly right he had at least one chance to make amends to his family face to face.


	4. Chapter 4

The streets of Hightown are formidable against the dawn. From the Chantry windows Sebastian could see a slight lightness in the sky, close to the horizon, but descending into the city all is dark, hushed and quiet as he makes his way to Hawke’s estate. He’s starting to feel the hours pile up, nearly his usual time to rise for morning prayers - although this, staggering through the streets with the sun chasing his heels, is nostalgic enough in its own way.

It is not the first time Sebastian has come to commiserate with those in mourning. He should have done it for Hawke when her mother died, even if she’d considered it too forward, that he should overstep himself, or intrude on her grief, or the dozen other excuses he’d finally made to keep his distance. It had been concern for how foolish he might look, for his own uncertainty, nothing to do with Hawke’s feelings at all. If anything, he is more nervous now, and with far more justification, but Sebastian will not argue himself out of it this time.

It might help, though, if he had any plans on what to say, or how. Sebastian is familiar speaking with those of the faith. It’s easier, there is a ritual to the conversation, expected condolences that he can offer - he can’t exactly say Saemus Dumar now stands at the Maker’s side.

The door opens as he approaches, and Sebastian is surprised by the sudden jolt of apprehension that runs through him, but it is only an elven servant, the young girl sweeping the entryway clean with brisk, careful strokes. He’d heard the story of her rescue, though this is the first time he’s seen her in person. She seems very young, though it isn’t always easy to guess the ages of elves. Her eyes go wide when she finally notices him, shrinking back a little toward the doorway. Sebastian stops, not wishing to frighten her further.

“You must be Orana. Hawke speaks of you often.”

The door opens a bit further, the mabari pushing its way out in front of her. When he sees who it is the stub of his tail starts wagging, and Sebastian watches the girl relax a little as he reaches down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“My name is Sebastian Vael. I apologize if I startled you.”

“Oh no, your Highness. It is an honor.”

He tries not to smile, as Orana moves to curtsey only to realize she’s still holding onto the broom, and fumbles it back behind the door before bowing very low. It seems she has heard of him as well, and though he doubts Starkhaven means much to her, a title is still a title.

“Please, don’t make yourself uneasy. I am a Chantry brother, nothing more.”

It is clear she feels safer erring on the side of caution, and holds her position for a few moments more, eyes cast deferentially to his feet.

“The mistress has not yet returned, I fear.”

Now that is odd, and more than a little unsettling with her mabari here at his side. Sebastian can imagine exactly what he does not wish to, Hawke distraught and alone, surrounded by any number of enemies - even if that may be exactly what she set out to accomplish. It’s all he can do not to turn around and go after her, even if she could be anywhere.

“I will wait for her here, if I may.”

“Of course, your Highness.”

Orana all but trips over her feet to hold the door open for him properly, turning to speak to what Sebastian assumes must be the footman. He’s surprised, then, to step inside and find Fenris getting to his feet, the elf just as startled to see him.

“I would say good morning, but as things stand….” Sebastian trails off. “Are you here for Hawke? I don’t know what you’ve heard-”

“Saemus Dumar is dead, and so is his killer… though there is still some question of who is to blame.” Fenris seems unsurprised by the news, reminding Sebastian that in his former life, such sudden, ugly debacles had likely been commonplace. A dozen intrigues or more to be invented and played out in full, with epilogues writ in blood before breakfast each morning. “If you have any lingering doubts - no, the Arishok will not take this well.”

He has no doubts. Sebastian will not pretend that he understands the Qunari or what rules bind them to their strange way of life - but simply turn things on their heel, and what would they have done? If it had been a group of Chantry ambassadors slaughtered on sight, if it had been one who had turned to the Maker struck down without pity at the docks - surely the Grand Cleric would have sought the peaceful path, even so. If tonight has proven nothing else however, it is that there are plenty of those who believe they know the Maker’s will, and even Elthina’s will far better than she does.

“You were there in the Chantry.” Fenris says, “what happened?”

“The Viscount’s son was dead before we arrived. The Qunari killed Petrice - Maker only knows how they got inside. It was all her doing. The blame for all of this can be laid at the feet of one false Mother. How much will actually follow her to her grave… remains to be seen.”

“Hawke would never agree to that.”

“It was the Knight-Captain who laid out the terms, and she didn’t challenge him.” Green eyes snap to his, instantly fierce and sharp, all but accusing him of lying, or worse. “Hawke was… not at her best. You know how well she thought of Saemus.”

“And he of her.”

A slight clink of glassware - Orana has returned with coffee, two mugs steaming on a silver tray, the continuing war between politeness and fear leaving her with little courage to do more than curtsey again.

“Thank you.” Sebastian says, and means it, reaching quickly for the cup. Fenris takes the other without much acknowledgement, though it seems more awkwardness than any actual dislike of the girl. It must be odd to have her here, even as a servant she must stand as a reminder of so many things. Orana looks between them with the smallest of smiles, and vanishes as quickly as she’d come.

“Quiet, isn’t she?”

“It’s a matter of survival.” Fenris says, with an abrupt growl that makes it suddenly odd to see him do anything so mild as hold a glass, or have a conversation. He takes a deliberate sip of his drink, the sharpness gone from his voice when he speaks again. “She’s improved a good deal, though, in such a short time.”

“Did you think it would be otherwise?”

Sebastian is surprised to see Fenris scowl down into his mug. “… no.”

He could say the elf’s temper bordered on the melancholic, if that word weren’t somewhat lacking for a warrior who could thread a man’s spine through his ribcage.

“I expected Hawke would be here by now.” Sebastian says. “We… parted ways at the Chantry, I don’t know where she’s gone.”

“The Keep. At the Seneschal’s request.”

He can’t imagine why, at least not a reason that works at all in Hawke’s favor. Still, it means she is relatively safe, and not out throwing herself into the maw of some dark unknown.

 _Or with Anders._

Now _that_ is a staggeringly petty thought, and pettier still that he is too tired to care. Sebastian envies Fenris, the elf always as sharp and ready as a newly-whetted blade no matter what the circumstances, whereas he’s all but drained his mug to no real effect. Sebastian glances up, though the paltry view through the high windows still shows nothing but darkness. He cannot hear the servant girl, the only sound the occasional scrape of claws on the floor, Karolis faithfully following her from room to room. He wonders if it’s been that way since Hawke’s mother died, if things had been less tense and spare before her passing. If this great hall had once felt like a home someone actually lived in.

“Have you given any more thought to my offer? Returning with me to Starkhaven?”

Fenris’ gaze is as harsh as any taskmaster, weighing and measuring him to the last gram, seeing no need to be polite about his conclusions. “The last that I’d heard, you weren’t so certain you were going anywhere.”

Sebastian smirks, but there’s no point taking offense at the truth. He certainly can’t leave the Grand Cleric like this, although it doesn’t hurt that there is still only meager support for his cause in the Marches. As it stands, Starkhaven is calm and prosperous, and though Sebastian thinks very little of the man currently on the throne, he at least seems to have the good sense to know when _not_ to act. An irony, that the murder of his family would shake up the city enough to make the people shy at any further violence, even if it came from the rightful heir. The best he can hope for is some instability, that Starkhaven will encounter a problem that their current leader cannot solve, and it might make them nostalgic for the past, for the one true Vael…

And if there is a thought more stupid, more selfish or more base he cannot imagine it. Would he truly settle for nothing less than riding in with armor shining, crowned in a halo of his own smug beneficence? What sort of a man, let alone a brother in the faith, would _hope_ for disaster to strike those he wished to rule? Did it mean he ought never to lead Starkhaven, or he ought never to think he could selflessly serve Andraste’s holy grace - or both? After all he thought he’d changed, and grown in his service to the Maker - is any of it true? At the first sign of a challenge, would he abandon all that he believed in?

It is not the only troubling thought, nor the worst one. Even if he remains in the Chantry, Sebastian knows he cannot be as the Grand Cleric is. He wants to walk the righteous path, but his will not be a peaceful one, not with all that he’s seen and done. There are too many who live in desperation, who need a sharp blade and a strong arm to protect them, more than any prayer. Elthina would not approve, and perhaps she is right to think so. Uncertainty taunts him, but even if he were certain of his path - Petrice was certain. As sure in her faith as anyone could be.

 _We can wait around for better men…_

Hawke’s words have kept with him, a strange sort of comfort, the reminder that there is no one waiting, not in this world, to show him up when he has failed. Whatever his decision, he will face no judgment but the Maker’s, and that only after all has reached its end. To stand by and do nothing while the innocent suffer will not keep him at Andraste’s side - she was hardly a woman to keep quiet, or stay where she was bid. A bit like Hawke, though Blessed Andraste did not tend to end her sermons with rounds at the Hanged Man and a drunken climb onto the statue of the man himself, to check below the belt for the direction of his… hanging.

Left, she’d said, after a long and careful deliberation. Definitely to the left.

She is never what he thinks she is. Sebastian still believes he could take Starkhaven, with her at his side.

“If Hawke came with me, would you join us?”

Before tonight, before Petrice, Sebastian thought he might not even have to ask. Hawke had peppered him with questions about the Free Marches, listening closely to the tales of his boyhood home, and when he’d asked her if she approved, she’d laughed and said that they may have done far better there than in Kirkwall. With her mother gone, it is only Bethany that holds her here, and she is kind and strong and Starkhaven has started to rebuild its Circle in earnest. Taking one mage with them when they leave is hardly out of bounds for a Prince.

“Is _that_ why you’re here?”

The hard edge returns to Fenris’ tone, suspicious and protective, that Sebastian might be here to press an advantage, sensing a weakness. Maybe it is all in his mind, only a trick of the late hour, that it might even be more.

Hawke prefers actions to words whenever possible, a physical person in all senses of the word. Isabela gets whatever she asks for: a touch, an embrace, a playful kiss. Even more than that, if they can steal away for it. After any decent fight, Sebastian has come to expect a rap of her knuckles on his armor, and that is when she does not simply grab on to an edge of his plate and shake. Reaching for each of them in turn, as if she doesn’t quite trust her eyes and needs to prove they’ve all come through the battle unscathed.

The mages get the greatest portion of her affections, Hawke often with a hand at Merril’s arm, or ruffling her hair - and at times it seems she is _always_ finding some way to touch Anders. Resting her hands against his shoulders when he sits, or batting at the end of his tied back hair. Twining her arms around one of his, and leaning against him in a silent gesture of support. Sebastian tells himself he is only worried for Hawke, that Anders does not deserve her trust or her faith, but what he feels, watching them together, is hardly a pure-hearted wish to do the Maker’s will.

Hawke never touches Fenris.

Never, though entire days will pass with him standing well within arm’s reach, and with the Amell crest on his belt, and Sebastian does not understand why. He doesn’t know how Hawke can’t see it, the way the elf watches after her, and the longing in his gaze when her back is turned, when he thinks no one else is looking. Sebastian had tried to speak with Varric only once - they were hardly friends, but the dwarf had known Hawke the longest of any of them, and had to have noticed it too. Certainly she didn’t mean to be cruel, but if she only knew how Fenris felt, she might speak with him, at least let him down gently…

Varric had stared at him, as if Sebastian had completely outdone himself, crashing through the bottom of even the dwarf’s lowest possible expectations to some new, vast thaig of utter idiocy. He’d stopped talking, then, because it was as obvious Varric knew a good deal more than he’d even thought to ask, and had no interest in telling him anything.

He can think of no way to ask Fenris that would even get him that far.

“I need to apologize to her. On behalf of the Chantry, for all that has happened.”

The elf looks at him as if counting the logs for his pyre. “You may not wish to speak for all of them.”

“An unfortunate side effect of taking vows.” Sebastian smiles slightly. “I have to live up to my promises.” He sighs, “I think Hawke is hurting far more than she’ll let on. I saw - she very nearly killed a Templar in the Chantry, when he made some damn fool slight against Saemus. I thinks she may feel as if the whole city stands against her. Perhaps I ought to let her alone, but it doesn’t feel right. I can’t just…”

“We parted ways outside the docks.” Fenris says abruptly. “I was to take the mabari home with me.”

“Hawke was at the docks?”

“She wished to see the Arishok.”

“That’s _madness_.”

Fenris gives the barest shrug, his meaning clear - _that’s Hawke_ \- and it is. Of course it is, but even for her...

“Why would she do such a thing?”

“Have you heard of _asala_?” Fenris says. “The Qunari believe that the soul of a warrior exists in his sword. The body is of no great importance, but a warrior’s weapon, his _asala_ … Hawke had the boy’s sword. Saemus must have explained it to her.”

“So she wanted to give it to the Qunari, before we burned his body in the Chantry.” It makes perfect sense - well, perfect Hawke sense. Concede the public gesture, and take care of what she needed to do in private, even if that meant walking without a guard or any warning into the very worst place in the city to be. “Thank the Maker you were there with her, at least.”

Fenris does not smile, does not look at him.

“Saemus Dumar was no warrior. The Arishok should never have accepted the blade.”

“Yet he did?”

“Yes.”

It would be a comfort, at least some small gesture Hawke could do for a friend, but Sebastian doesn’t like the weight of the elf’s stillness, the deliberation with which he finally sets his cup down.

“Fenris, did something happen?”

“Almost.”

He waits, but the elf says nothing more.

“Maybe we should wait for her at the Keep, then. Just in case-”

“It’s all right. She won’t leave without the dog.”

It’s been a long, long night. Sebastian is thinking of hidden dangers, of Hawke being ambushed, but it it is clear Fenris means something else entirely - leaving? where would she even _go_? - and so the elf is halfway to the door before Sebastian realizes he’s walking out.

“You’re not staying?”

Fenris pauses, just briefly, at the threshold. Whatever friendship exists between them, it is not enough to make him turn, let alone bid farewell.


	5. Chapter 5

Orana takes the empty mugs away, as nervous as ever, and the only courtesy Sebastian can think of is to keep his gaze off her completely. The rest of the house is still silent save for the crackle of a low fire in the hearth. No one else is awake yet, though Sebastian guesses the girl must prefer early mornings. It seems unlikely she doesn’t set her own hours, especially now that Leandra Hawke is gone.

The silence here is thick and heavy, and he cannot imagine Hawke enjoys it - not with what he knows of her family, or at least what it used to be. A father and mother, two siblings, all of them sharing a small Ferelden homestead little different than any of those scattered across the Free Marches. Sebastian has ministered to those families often enough, the happiest among them with as much noise and chatter as a tree full of songbirds. Now only Hawke’s sister remains, and she lives behind Gallows stone. Is it any wonder, growing up with magic as she had, that Hawke had all but adopted Merrill and Anders, no matter how dangerous they might be?

It’s jealousy he feels, a childish sense of unfairness, that the mages can stay at her side no matter what they do and this single night could be his breaking point, that Hawke will blame him right alongside Petrice and that will be the end of it. No more crossing paths at the Chanter’s board, with Hawke accepting odd errands and pleas for help the way other noble women of Kirkwall practice their needlepoint. No more accompanying her on those adventures, or trading off shots at the target range, his arrows against her knives. He enjoys it, to be alone with her and free to speak about whatever crosses his mind, with no expectation of him as a Brother, no one judging him against all those Princes who came before. He is himself with her, only Sebastian and nothing more.

It is difficult not to dwell on the past, now that he might truly become Prince of Starkhaven, and among the many reasons he struggles to forgive the Lady Harimann is that temptation, to be suddenly gifted what he’d spent so long telling himself he no longer cared for.

It had taken a long time, a _stupidly_ long time to admit that he hadn’t been singled out for punishment due to his birth. That both of his brothers had lived under obligations no less binding than his own, and just because he’d thought them the more glorious and enviable did not make it so. It is a constant challenge to remember that - he prays for it - and Sebastian had been embarrassed to find himself explaining his past to Hawke in the same old, maudlin terms. How he had been left in the cold, no one’s choice even before he’d made debauchery his life’s ambition.

At times, he’s even tried to tell himself that Hawke’s not even a noble, not really, with how unwillingly she plays the part. If she were, certainly she’d pick out the same flaws in him everyone else seems eager to take note of - but, Maker forgive him, he would much rather be the man she sees. Sebastian likes the person he is when Hawke is nearby - and he doesn’t want to lose that, not when it feels like there’s still so far to go, that he might not get there on his own. It’s selfish, perhaps, but honest too.

Still, it is awkward to be here with no one around, and quiet as it is, Hawke may very well find him snoring his vigil away if she waits much longer. He walks slowly across the room just to give himself something to do, finally pausing at a low desk. Tired as he is, Sebastian can’t say what it is about the letter at the top of the stack that catches his eye - the blue envelope, the ornate writing with too many flourishes for his tired eyes to decipher. Either way, he isn’t thinking, not even really reading, just flipping idly through the stack, only half-aware of what he’s doing until the voice calls out from behind him.

“The incriminating letters start from the bottom. Alphabetized. ‘A’ for apostate.”

Sebastian turns sharply at the flat tone, letters falling from clumsy fingers to scatter across the floor. Hawke is watching him from the entryway, her expression shuttered, no warmth to be found there. As if he is a stranger.

“Did Aveline send you by? Keep me from making a run for it?”

“No one sent me.” Maker, but she looks rough. Pale and past caring and out of any reason to pretend otherwise. Sebastian’s eyes narrow, more than simple exhaustion in the way she moves. “You’ve been drinking.”

Hawke smiles then, bright and unfriendly, unsheathing her knives. A familiar sight, a casual, even lazy motion, with the sudden snap of speed and power that drives them into the mantlepiece hard enough to make the wood crack. It is a bad habit, and a very unsubtle warning.

““We finally ran out of things to argue about, so we decided to have a race to the floor. The Seneschal holds his liquor better than you’d think for a man his age. Sadly, we were both bested by the Knight-Captain.” A slight sound of amazement. “You know, if he could, I think he’d turn the Canticle of Trials into a drinking song. I’ve never seen a man that far under the table and still sober.” Hawke stops, both hands on her lower back, stretching backwards. The distance between them feels brittle and dangerous, poised to shatter. “Bran wanted me seeing double, before he told me I wasn’t invited to the funeral. I suppose he figured it might make it harder for me to aim.”

“Hawke, you know the Grand Cleric would never try to stop you from-”

She shakes her head sharply. “I don’t want to be there. It won’t change anything.”

Sebastian can smell the alcohol on her as she draws near, though Hawke doesn’t wobble as she crouches to pick up the scattered invitations.

“You’re quite popular.”

She makes a soft, dismissive sound. “It helps me know where not to be.”

He finally recognizes the name he’d seen on the topmost letter, a noble that had been somewhat interested in his plight and unexpectedly amicable when Sebastian had mentioned his association with Hawke, with some favor she’d done for a friend of a friend. Hawke has made enemies, but there are those who might prove otherwise, if she would only bother to acknowledge them properly.

“He would make a fair ally.”

“An even better hostage. Have you seen him hold a sword?” Hawke stands, shuffling the envelopes roughly into a stack, and tosses them without ceremony into the fire. “The fewer the variables, the smaller the mess.”

He had wondered what Fenris meant, thinking that Hawke would somehow disappear. Sebastian’s starting to understand it - this is how to ensure no one else gets hurt, even if it is the very last thing she ought to do. Hawke needs more support, not less, and now more than ever.

“You should be more careful with your alliances.”

All that time Sebastian spent worrying about what he would say, just to go and shove his boot all the way in it at the very first opportunity. Hawke flinches, a flicker of deep hurt in her eyes, disappearing into an impassive, deliberate blankness.

"I don't see how that will be a problem anymore."

“Hawke, I didn’t mean…”

A soft whine interrupts them, Karolis padding up to Hawke’s side, licking at her hand and leaning against her as she scratches his head. Hawke frowns down at the dog, puzzled.

“Fenris said you went to see the Arishok.” Sebastian says.

“He was here, then?”

Her confusion fades, though Sebastian can’t name the still, quiet emotion that takes its place. It lasts but an instant anyway, as Orana peeks out from the side door.

“Good morning, Mistress. I hope all is well.” Her hands wring together slightly, clasped tight at her waist. Aware of the tension in the room, unable to do anything but hope for the best. “I haven’t started breakfast yet, but if you and his Highness would like…”

“It’s fine, Orana. We’re not hungry.” He forgets, sometimes, that Hawke is a very good liar, her sudden smile warm and bright and meant for the girl alone. “I was passing next door, and their cook said he could use your help with the morning baking again. I told him I’d send you by, if you’d like.”

She lights up. “Oh, thank you, Mistress! I’ll do my best to bring something back for the table.”

The next breath, and Orana is already to the door, Karolis at her heels. The door closes, and takes Hawke’s smile with it.

“She won’t ask to go, you know? Orana doesn’t like being alone here, but she never asks - one of the maids had to come tell me she was watching them out the window, and looked lonely. If they wanted to hire her on, I’d let her leave.” She lets out a humorless laugh. “‘Let her.’ Look at me, playing the rich girl.”

“She’s very fortunate to have met you.”

Hawke doesn’t answer, and Sebastian struggles for anything to say that doesn’t carry some unintended judgment, that might be anything she wants to hear. He should have asked Elthina at least how to begin, how to reach out when he can feel the distance stretching out between them, Hawke further away now than when he stood here alone. Blessed Andraste, give him strength, give him wisdom and guide him -

“So, how did the Viscount take the news that his heretic son isn’t with the Maker?”

Sebastian takes a long, steadying breath. It is an answer to his prayers, of a kind - that at least he can’t make things any worse. Hawke leans back against the table, facing him, and though it looks like a drunken slouch he has no doubt that she could take him down before he could think to draw a weapon. It unsettles him even more than he’d expected, to see her cool suspicion. Such a measuring look, caution and reserve beneath the wry, bitter smile - she’s bracing herself, waiting for him to hurt her. He is just one more thing for her to endure.

“You don’t have to worry, Sebastian. I bribe easy. A few spare acres of Starkhaven forest and permission to hunt your deer, and you’d never see me again.”

“I… is _that_ why you think I’m here?”

“I understand.” Hawke says, her voice calm and flat and barely even interested. “I do. The Chantry’s nervous, and it’s got to close ranks. When things go bad, people have to protect what’s important to them. I promise you, I’m not about to cross swords with the devout.”

 _No matter how much they deserve it._ It goes unsaid, but just barely.

“You’re right. I do have to protect what’s important,” he says, and holds her gaze, until he’s sure she understands. He’s certainly not here to cut ties - and Maker let him never be that kind of coward, to even think of abandoning her like this, though in that former life he surely would have. Sebastian knows he would have walked away from this without ever thinking twice, and then spent all the time after wondering how a life of ease could come to feel so difficult.

He thinks, just maybe, that the anger fades slightly from Hawke’s eyes before she looks away, and dares to feel the barest twinge of hope. Maybe she thought he’d come here for that final conversation. Maybe he’s not the only one who’d been afraid of losing.

“I’m not here to fight, Hawke.”

“Of course not. You have Templars to do that for you. Keeps your hands nice and clean while you pray.” Hawke seems as surprised as he is by her icy tone, and she quickly turns away, rubbing a hand against the bridge of her nose. “I really need you not to be here right now, Sebastian. I’m not… good at this. Any of this. I’m tired, and I’m just going to say things I don’t want to that I can’t take back.”

“So you’re a mean drunk. I did wonder.”

The look she gives him would flay him to the bone if it could, Hawke with her jaw clenched and warring with whatever vicious, hurtful thing she wants to shout at him. She may not want them to be enemies but he’s asking too much to be her friend now. He would go, if he thought it would do any good at all. If it will help her to yell at someone, though, why not him?

As if it hasn’t happened before, consoling the families of those taken to the Maker’s side too young, or without warning, hurt and wanting anyone to blame for it. Sebastian has had heresy and worse flung at him like a challenge, all but begging him to get angry, willing to face any punishment as long as it meant not having to face what had been lost. Grief held too long turns to poison - it has to be leached, and If Sebastian cannot answer pain with compassion he cannot do the Maker’s work at all.

“I thought I would offer the chance for confession. In dark times, many people wish to unburden themselves.”

It makes her laugh, sharp but maybe the slightest bit amused, or at least impressed by his audacity. If she truly wanted him gone, Hawke surely would have thrown a knife at his head by now. Just because he can’t see more than what she’s left over the fireplace doesn’t mean she’s not carrying them.

“Only if you promise not to respect me in the morning.”

“It is morning.”

Sebastian doesn’t mean anything by it, but he sees her expression waver again, just for a moment. The anger falling away and what is behind it is so _defeated_ he takes a step forward before he can stop himself, and watches the cold resolve return, as if daring him to try and break her. As if they have been speaking separate languages all this time, where he says condolence and she hears inquisition.

“A full catalog of my failings, then? I’ll tell you, we can probably skip over lust. That well’s run a bit dry.”

“Anger, then.”

Hawke laughs again, and he can practically feel the edge of it at his throat. “How did we meet, Sebastian?”

“I was wrong.”

“That’s convenient, since they’re all still dead.”

“I didn’t want you to kill Petrice. Not for her sake, but for yours. You know that, Hawke. I know you do, and this… this isn’t you. You kill when you have to, not when you want to, not for revenge. Petrice would have been punished, it wasn’t necessary.”

“Necessary?” Hawke says, as if the word is pure poison. “After everything that’s happened, after everything you’ve seen, _that’s_ your argument? You heard Kerras, you know what he said. Half the Chantry thinks Petrice died a martyr and the ones who don’t just haven’t heard about it yet!”

“She will not die a Mother. The Grand Cleric assured me of this.”

“So we can leave her to rot for the beasts?” Hawke says, her voice tight and mocking, because she already knows the answer, just as Sebastian does. For all that she’s done, she will still be given the proper rites, be consigned to the ashes - even grudgingly - as the Maker’s servant. “No? Of course not. What was I thinking.”

“Petrice will answer for what she’s done.”

“You really think the Maker cares?”

“Elthina does.” It had shaken the Grand Cleric, Sebastian knows, to consider what would happen, the final dispensation of a soul she herself had consecrated in the faith. If she prayed longer for Petrice than for the Viscount’s son, it was certainly not that she considered the boy past salvation.

Hawke pushes off away from the wall, away from him, pacing in a tight circle - a wild creature, all too aware of the dimensions of its cage.

“A monster murders my mother, and there’s _nothing_ I can’t do to him that won’t be seen as righteous work. I can kill blood mages all I want. I kill enough of them, the Knight-Commander might even have to acknowledge I’m alive. I can hate them, it’s _right_ to hate them, but a Mother kills a boy in cold blood in the Chantry Hall, and now I’ve got to go back there like it never happened. I’ve got to see all those people who supported her, who stood by her right up until they thought they might have to admit to it. The ones who will think that Petrice’s punishment is all for the Viscount’s sake, a concession to a sad, useless old man with a traitor for a son. I have to pretend that I don’t know what they think of him, or what they think of me, and I have to smile and play nice when I wouldn’t care if the Arishok lined them all up and used them for _target practice_.”

Sebastian watches Hawke’s fingers flex, as if wishing for a weapon, and wonders how much more damage he might see here if the walls weren’t made of stone.

“The city’s full of fools who couldn’t tell magic from a hole in the ground or a word of the Qun if it was held out in front of them and still they call for blood! The Chantry lets monsters like Alrik and Varnell become heroes for us all and I have to watch it happen and don’t you _dare_ tell me what’s ‘necessary!’ Petrice’s life was _mine_ , it belonged to me the minute she murdered Saemus and I only wish I could have killed her a thousand times!”

Hawke is breathing hard, glaring at him. Waiting for the protest, for his attempt to deny or defend. For the noble Chantry brother to tell her what she ought to feel, as if the Maker and His Wisdom don’t feel as far away as they ever have.

“So, that’s anger.”

It is his best attempt at the Grand Cleric’s temperance, though Sebastian is certain Hawke would have rather he had yelled, rather he had done anything at all but meet her without judgment. What is he supposed to say? Should he deny her frustration, when Hawke could choose to strike out at her enemies, when there is so little to check her but knowing what it would do to those caught in between - what it would do to him? Sebastian lives in both worlds, and as often as he defends the Chantry to Hawke’s allies he can just as easily find himself arguing on her behalf within the Hall.

Elthina preaches moderation and understanding, but there are no small number of those in Kirkwall who prefer the Knight Commander’s stern, unflinching order. Those who would support Petrice’s cause if not quite her actions, and believe any tolerance of the Qunari is but one step from conversion. It is heartening to see that here, even here in the midst of her fury, Hawke will not attack when she cannot choose where each blow falls. She will not throw away his faith in her for a chance at vengeance, though at the moment she seems to think it is anything but a virtue. Sebastian watches her shoulders slump in the wake of that rage, too heavy a burden when he refuses to argue back, to take his share. If only she would trust him enough to set it down, just for a moment…

The creak of the door startles them both, Hawke’s footman peering out into the hall, and Sebastian’s close enough to hear Hawke curse under her breath - she’d forgotten they weren’t alone.

“Ah… Good morning, Messere, to you and to your guest, of course. It’s a bit… ah, early. Sandal and I couldn’t help but… well… is everything all right?” All false cheer, the dwarf knowing very well it’s not, though there’s not a polite way to ask if Sebastian needs to be thrown out on his ear.

“Everything’s fine, Bodhan. I didn’t mean to wake you. Tell Sandal I’m sorry.”

Hawke sighs, running a hand through her hair, and gestures quickly for Sebastian to follow her toward the other end of the estate, putting a few thick walls between their audience and any further outbursts, or giving herself a moment to calm down, or both. It is perhaps an unnecessary precaution, no sign of anything in the way she moves now but weariness, that sudden burst of outrage all she had the strength for. He thinks to reach for her half a dozen times as they walk the long hall, but for all he’s come this far Sebastian doesn’t know what he will say when his hand finally touches her shoulder, when she turns to look at him, and so he does nothing, and the only sound comes from his boots against the floor.

The kitchen is of a decent size, though much like the rest of the house, it seems to be barely in use. A long table and a bench have been kept clean, though another of Hawke’s longer blades is stuck in the center of it - he can see a chip in the steel, perhaps retired to kitchen duty after one too many spiders. There is the gleam of another, shorter throwing knife imbedded in a wooden post at the far side of the room, paired with a dark-handled blade he doesn’t recognize as hers, a scattering of small holes that suggests Isabela also enjoys a round of impromptu target practice now and then.

“You want anything?” Hawke says, disappearing into the pantry. “Bethy would argue, but I can usually manage to boil water most days.”

“I’m fine.”

Hawke returns with a rough-hewn bottle already at her lips, and when she drops it to the table the smell is… indescribable. Like the cheapest Chantry incense mulled in dragon piss. She smirks slightly at his expression, a specific smug pride that means this is some sort of _Ferelden_ mulled piss.

“Chasind sack mead. It’ll put hair on your _thoughts_.” Hawke takes a long drink, wincing sharply. “I cut my teeth on this stuff. Can’t quite remember why. Or maybe that is why.”

“Are you sure you want to be drinking?”

“You have no idea.” Her cheeks are slowly going ruddy, but Hawke’s eyes are startlingly sharp and clear, even as she takes another drink. Studying him again, and Sebastian is rather glad he has no ulterior motives or he’d certainly be sweating them out, even if her gaze seems more thoughtful than dangerous.

“Why did you do it, anyway? Isabela says you know quite a few things you _really_ shouldn’t.”

The pirate has come to make a game of it, blurting out the odd bit of slang here or there to see if he’ll blush. Annoyingly, it works just often enough to keep her well entertained.

“Do you mean the shameless debauchery or when I decided to try and be a man worth knowing?”

“You tell me.”

It almost feels normal, as if nothing’s changed between them, and Sebastian allows himself to enjoy the moment. Hawke has never asked him directly about his past, preferring to let him tell the stories he wants to, although in light of everything that’s happened now those days seems regrettably dull, a schoolboy’s notion of sin and vice. “I knew I was bound for the Chantry early on. I thought if I was going to spend my life doing penance, I might as well have plenty of regrets.”

“You could’ve run.”

“Oh, but I was the tragic hero, you see. Burdened by my cruel inheritance - the same one that allowed me to lounge in taverns, curse fate, and pay pretty girls to sympathize. A convenience I assure you I overlooked at the time.” Sebastian stops, can feel himself at the cusp of delivering a sermon, yet another thing he had not come to do. “This isn’t about me.”

“It isn’t about anything.”

“… and that’s the sin of despair.”

Hawke’s hand tightens around the neck of the bottle, her jaw set in a hard line, silent and very still, looking away from him. Sebastian wonders if he’s made too much of the moment, and pushed his already fragile luck past the breaking point when she speaks.

“We went into the Wilds once, Father and Bethy, Carver and I. It was no different than usual, a trip away from Lothering when a new batch of recruits came through on their way to Denerim, eager to make a name for themselves. A nice walk in the woods, a good chance for my sister to get some practice in with no one around. ”

It is rare for her to talk about this, at least with him, no matter how casual her tone. Sebastian hasn’t heard much about her life before, her time in Lothering, born and raised among apostates. Either because everyone else already knows, or that she sees little reason to tell him more about the father who ignored Chantry law for the better part of twenty years and got away with it.

“The summer - I remember it was high summer because of the buzzing, there wouldn’t have been all the flies later on.”

Hawke swallows, still looking at the wall - through the wall, back into the past.

“The Chasind - at first we thought it was… I don’t know. Magic. Demons. Something more than men. It was a slaughter, a massacre. My whole life, I’ve never seen blood like that. Not even at Ostegar. We came over the hill, and the sound of the flies… the whole valley was red. Everything half-burned, charred and smoking, and all that blood ground right into the dirt. The smell… you couldn’t even get sick, it was too much. They’d killed everyone, the old, the young… Bethy held my arm so hard I had bruises for a week, while Father looked for anyone to save.”

“The barbarians killed each other?” Sebastian knows a few things about Ferelden, but very little about the peoples of the distant South, who live well beyond the Chantry’s teachings or the common laws of men.

“You say it like they’re little better than animals. I thought… I don’t know, maybe it was true. You’d have to be, wouldn’t you, to be capable of something like that? The tribe that did it - we traded with them now and then. Father had healed their children and I used to talk traps and furs and there was no sign of… Any reason to think they could... We asked them why, and they acted like nothing had happened. I don’t think they understood why we even cared.”

Hawke shakes her head slightly, still no sense in it, no matter how much time has passed.

“It was all a matter of territory, of honor, someone poaching on someone else’s land, or not presenting a proper tithe. It’s more complicated than anyone gives them credit for, all about bloodlines and transgressions and who owes who… I used to think about it, how anyone could do something that terrible, like it was _necessary_. I felt grateful for living in Lothering, even with the Templars to deal with. I thought that at least civilized people killed each other for better reasons.”

“There was nothing of Andraste’s will in what happened in the Chantry. Petrice sacrificed Ser Varnell the moment he proved inconvenient. She would have killed anyone she thought stood in her way.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better? We’re going to keep doing this forever. _Forever_. You know that, don’t you? The Qunari and the Chantry. Killing people over the best way to keep people from suffering.” She laughs once, a bleak, empty sound, thumb gently tracing the edge of the bottle. “Petrice didn’t even know what she did. She had no idea what was lost. I think the only one as angry as I am that Saemus is dead is the Arishok, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

“Hawke…”

“I always thought my father was the bravest and best man in all of Ferelden - fearless, bound by nothing. Now… now I think maybe he knew there was no use in fighting. Trying to make this world better, it just means getting hurt, and putting a target on the back of everyone you know. Maybe he knew… the only thing that matters is staying out of the way. Finding some little town to hide in with whatever it is you love, and letting the world hack itself to pieces. The only important thing is making sure no one who looks can ever find you.”

“You’re a good person, Hawke.”

She makes a harsh sound. “I don’t want to be a good person. I want to be the one that can save my friends.”

Sebastian shakes his head. “Those kind of people don’t have friends.”

“Maybe it’s better that way.”

“… and so the sin of Pride cuts down the strongest men.”

“Pride.” Hawke repeats, and takes another hefty swig from the bottle. “There is not enough mead in the world.”

“You believe that Saemus died for nothing because of what you see and know. What you see and know is only the smallest piece of what _is_ , and yet you’re still so certain of the truth. Is that not pride?” Sebastian pushes on, before he can think the better of it. “It’s dangerous, and arrogant to think you can shoulder all your burdens alone, and not trust in those who care for you.”

“Sebastian, do you know what happens to people like us when people like you start talking about the Maker?” Hawke sweeps a hand out, encompassing all of Kirkwall and the world beyond. “This is what happens. This is _always_ what happens. What Petrice did? That’s what it means. One Exalted March to free the slaves, and then what were the rest for? ‘Defending the faith.’ Which means you don’t just strike back against the Dales, oh no. You kill everything you can lay hands on and sow history with the ashes. No compromise. No mercy, not for elves or mages or anyone at all. Ever.”

“You truly think I’d betray you.” Sebastian tries to ignore the sting of that - she did warn him - but it still hurts.

“Wager your conscience against my own life? Fine,” Hawke flicks out a hand, as if giving up an early round in Diamondback, “I can take it. But we’re not talking about me. Do you expect me to trust you with my sister? That if it came down to her life or your god, I can be certain of what you’d choose? Do I really trust you with that, Sebastian? Do I trust you with Merrill? Or Anders?”

“You’ve trusted me this far.”

“And every time he opens his mouth I’m sure you wonder why you bother.”

“I do.”

Hawke nods, lifting the bottle again - and Sebastian reaches out, his hand over hers, just enough pressure to keep it from finishing the journey. She looks at him, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull his hand away until she’s allowed him to bring the bottle with it. Sebastian sets it on the table, and keeps his eyes fixed on it, watching a drop of mead trace a path down the glass, and he’d pray for eloquence now but that would mean he’d been doing anything else all this time.

“I was certain of everything when I was young. You think I’m self-righteous _now_? Oh, you should have seen me then.” Sebastian smiles, at least a little fond of the idiot he had been. “I knew exactly how the world worked, and I knew it was a cheap and ugly place. My brothers had the world, my parents adored them, and I had nothing and was obliged to no one. I hadn’t asked for any of it, and so it was my right, no, my _duty_ to do exactly as I wished. Nothing I did mattered, because I didn’t matter. I thought I’d discovered the truth of the world.”

He doesn’t look up, to see what she thinks. He’s not quite that brave.

“When I joined the Chantry, when I decided to become a brother - all that truth just fell away. All the desperation, the endless need to prove myself. I didn’t even realize I was trying, that all my poor choices were still only for Starkhaven, to prove that I could be _something_ , that was better to be regretted than ignored. The Chantry… the Grand Cleric, they showed me how to be thankful for what I had, my life and my choices - and that I could make a difference. We are all equal by the Maker’s measure, whether commoners or kings or fools who ought to have known better all along.” Sebastian would give anything to be able to explain it properly, that one perfect moment of _knowing_ , but there can be no eloquence when there are no words. “I found such a sense of peace, of clarity. Everything was simple, there was a way to do right and I would do it. I would earn a place at the Maker’s side among those who sought the same, and that would be my life. I’d _finally_ discovered the truth.”

“So here we are,” Hawke says, and he can tell by her tone that she’s wishing she had the bottle back. Sebastian might be too, if he were her - and if that was the end of it.

“Here we are. My family is gone, and there’s no one left in this world to find me wanting. The approval I was so certain I no longer needed is forever beyond my reach - and now that I can’t have it I want it more than ever. I am the last of my line, and I pray every night for guidance, for a sign, that I might know what to do, what is _right_. I spend my time with thieves and liars and apostates, and I never know what the day may bring, let alone who I might be by the end of it. I’m not sure I’d even recognize the truth now, let alone be able to trust in it. I have never been less comfortable or less certain in my entire life - and I doubt that I have ever done more good.”

He finally glances up. Hawke is surprised, either from the admission that he knows nothing or that he isn’t more angry about it. At first he had been, and he’d tried to deny it, to argue it out of existence, but if being a Chantry brother is good for nothing else, it provides ample opportunity for contemplation.

“If tonight has shown me anything, it is that I may have been wrong all along, to think certainty was the goal. That I _deserve_ the luxury of being sure of my convictions, simply because it is more comfortable. Believing in that comfort as a virtue, when it is a lie that people die for. Maybe not knowing, maybe never knowing is what it truly means to serve the Maker.”

Hawke frowns. “Don’t give Him the credit for your goodness. He doesn’t deserve it.”

Sebastian smiles. “At my best, I can only follow where Andraste led.”

“Andraste was who she was before the Maker _ever_ turned his gaze on her!”

He has always known Hawke was not much of the faith, more tolerant than observant. The terms of her protest, the fierceness in it still catches him by surprise.

“It’s not meant to be a burden, Hawke.” Sebastian says gently. “‘ _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just? _’ You serve Him more devotedly than Petrice ever did.”__

“ _By My Will alone is Balance sundered_ ,” Hawke snaps back. “He says that, He does _that_ , and then He bitches and bitches and _bitches_ when it bites Him in the ass. Or is it just not fun being omnipotent if you can’t be self-righteous about it?”

“We rejected Him.”

“I don’t remember anyone asking me. Or you. He’s so perfect that we get punished for sins that aren’t even ours.”

“All of us carry the same potential for ruin within our hearts. What we know is that the Maker turned his gaze from us. The question of why - there are some within the Chantry who argue that Andraste does not seek to temper his anger, but soothe his despair. Perhaps watching us fail, seeing so many willingly choose a path of suffering is simply more than He can bear.”

Sebastian knows he has her there, after all that has happened tonight. How many more such disappointments could anyone endure, man or god?

“He can damn well step in anytime He wants.”

“The way you did with the Qunari mage? The way you forced him to do as you saw fit?” He’d read about that one, Varric giving him access to his working notes of Hawke’s adventures in lieu of having to endure a conversation. How she’d allowed Ketojan to live - and die - by his own choice. “The Maker made men to walk their own paths. It is what makes us who we are.”

Hawke goes to speak, bites her lip instead. She looks so lost. Utterly desolate.

“You’re better at this than I thought you’d be.”

“I can only spend so much time polishing my armor.”

It’s not much of a joke, but it gains him a weak snort of something like humor. Hawke rubs at her eyes again, and Sebastian thinks he is not mistaken, the sheen of tears she pretends isn’t there.

“This would all be so much easier if I could just hate you.”

He knows now that he’s been wrong, all this time. Despair is not her sin, it will never be her sin.

“You would serve the prophet but not the god. I never know what you are, Hawke.”

“Me?” She makes a dismissive sound. “That’s easy. I’m the one who’s going to get you killed.”

“The way you got Saemus killed?”

Sebastian watches her swallow hard, jaw clenched, mouth fixed in a thin, tight line.

“It’s not your fault.”

“As good as.” Her voice is rough, and wet. “It doesn’t hurt less to pretend it’s not, so why bother?”

“If I should give up my life for what I believed in, I would not be disappointed. If I died without rites or recognition, I would not think it meaningless. I doubt Saemus Dumar was any less sure in his convictions.” Sebastian can feel it, the strain of the draw like lining up a shot, and he has never been more certain of hitting the mark. “I would not regret knowing you. He did not regret it.”

Hawke sucks in a short, pained breath, voice tight and trembling. “You don’t mean that. You think you do, because it sounds nice to say, but you don’t.”

“I might not even be alive now, if it weren’t for you. If Flint Company had failed to hunt me down, I’m sure the Lady Harimann would have found another way.”

“You have other allies.”

“Not nearly as well armed.”

Sebastian reaches out, feels her flinch as his hand curls lightly against the back of her neck, though she doesn’t pull away.

“You believe, Hawke. You believe when you don’t want to, and when it hurts, and when there will be no reward. When you have no one left to be strong for and no reason left to hope - you still believe. You fight for the good, and it’s right to do so. It’s all right to believe.”

“I just… I _can’t_ …” The tears are falling now, though she doesn’t seem to notice them, “I want them back. Saemus. My mother. My brother. I want them back. I don’t care if anyone pays, I don’t care if Petrice… I don’t _care_. I just want them back.”

It takes only a step to close the distance between them, and even as he pulls her close Hawke all but crashes into him, weeping in great jagged gasps and her grip on him so desperate, as if he is the only steady place in all the world.

“Shhh, Hawke. It’s all right.” It’s not, and Sebastian can’t promise it will be, but she’s in his arms and at least here, at least for a little while he can make it true. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

He murmurs soft assurances, words of little consequence though Hawke is too far gone to hear them anyway, sobbing blindly against him. It is only a little awkward to shuffle them to the bench, muscles protesting with each step, reminding him just how long he’s been on his feet. It doesn’t really matter, not with Hawke tucked safe in the crook of his arm and his hand in her hair, stroking gently, trying to soothe away some of that pain, and Elthina was right about this, about everything. If he’d stayed away, if he’d let fear rule him and left her to carry this alone - it isn’t worth considering.

Sebastian glances up at the slightest movement from the other side of the room - the dwarf, Bodhan, peeking through the doorway. He watches them for a moment, before disappearing without a sound. Checking in on Hawke, and Sebastian wonders how little time it will take Varric to hear of this, whether the dwarf ever mentions it or not. He would envy her ability to inspire such loyalty, if he weren’t so caught up in it himself. Already thinking of how he might court the nobles she ignores on her behalf, to give her some kind of defense against whatever might lie ahead. How he still can’t tell if this is all a reward or a test and he doesn’t much care.

It takes a long time before Hawke goes still and quiet, more out of energy than tears, leaning against him. She shifts, and he turns, to rest his chin on the top of her head, neither of them quite ready to break the illusion of peace that exhaustion has given them.

“You’re one merciless son of a bitch, Vael,” she murmurs. “You know that?”

“I used to be. This is better.”

“It doesn’t feel better.”

“It will.”

The shaft of light that falls across the floor is so unexpected it takes Sebastian a moment to even recognize it for what it is - morning, finally come to Kirkwall. Hawke shudders hard, as close as they are he can feel the force of it shake her from head to toe, the horrible realization of time passing by. He tightens his arms around her, close enough that he can keep his voice a low, soothing murmur.

“Not yet, not just yet.”

Silence returns, but it’s not the dangerous kind, and by the time she speaks again Sebastian’s almost half-asleep.

“You’re welcome to the guest room. I’m sure Orana’s kept it ready.”

“Do I have to share with the dog?”

Sebastian can hear the smile in her voice, small but real, and enough to be grateful for.

“You’re not that important, your Highness.”

It may very well be the end of him, to stand with her now. Whatever comes, Sebastian thinks it must be the end of some part of him, that when all is accounted for the Prince or the Brother will not survive, and it will be more than simply a title he leaves behind. So much time debating, and he is still not at all sure what to strive for, which path to take, or what it might mean when he gets there. That Hawke will stand by him, that he has not lost her trust - the relief of it is as bright and warm as the sunlight, and for now he is content simply to enjoy it.

Sebastian is sure of nothing, but that this is the way it is meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I was kind of pushing for Sebastian-as-Prince, and a little annoyed that it seemed to be the less ‘moral’ option, mostly because of his dialogue if you side with the Templars in the final battle. Admittedly going back home might stir up a lot of trouble, but he’s kind of terrifying when he thinks he’s got a righteous cause and the absolute moral high ground, and I didn’t much like the thought of where that might lead.
> 
> 2\. Thanks to Flidget as always for beta-ing even when we play completely different Hawkes.


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